Growing New Wings
by SkyLark89
Summary: Following their return to District 12 after the war, Katniss and Peeta grow back together.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** "Growing New Wings"  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Following their return to District 12 after the war, Katniss and Peeta grow back together.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (for a sexual situation which is not descriptive, but T rated)  
><strong>Length:<strong> 8 parts, approx. 30,000 words  
><strong>AN:** Here's my version of how Katniss and Peeta grow back together. It's an elaboration on the last pages of pre-epilogue _Mockingjay_, and ends with "Real."  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

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><p><em>"…people don't need wings to survive."<em>

_"Mockingjays do."_

Then how am I surviving, Peeta? If I ever had wings, they're gone by now. Burned off when that fire licked across my back. All I'm left with is a small, very human body. Ridged skin, bones that are too prominent. I'm not starving these days but I don't have much of an appetite.

Am I surviving? I suppose that must be what I'm doing. My heart is beating, I have air in my lungs, my eyes are open. I see, I hear. I feel pain sometimes, like when I accidentally catch a nail on one of my scars. That is an all too real reminder that I am still alive. Still surviving.

I alternate between days when my eyes are never dry and days when they burn from dryness. I have a habit of crying. Sometimes I sob, other times it's silent and I don't realize it's happening right away; I have to feel tears falling on the hands which are neatly folded in my lap as I stare at nothing. Other days, I'll go without blinking for too long, not on purpose, just because I forget to. It's painful when I connect my lids again. I usually rub my eyes after this and make them sore. Once I rubbed so hard that some sort of lesion formed on one of my eyes, and it swelled, making blinking painful.

The nightmares are now accompanied by visions during the day. I try not to focus on them too much or let them consume me, but they keep coming back. I imagine myself sinking into the floor of my empty house and staying there. I want to lie down and slowly start to melt through the floorboards, until I'm beneath them. Trapped, hidden, alone, safe. _Safe?_

I don't know why I think about things like that. I don't know if I actually want it to happen or if I still have some kind of hope left. It doesn't feel like there's much of anything left in me. I don't want to die, I want to disappear. I want to have never existed.

But, I remind myself, if I'd never existed I could not have taken Prim's place in the Games. She would have died in the arena, rather than in the Capitol. It probably would have been worse for her, to die in the Games. I like to think she didn't suffer at all when the bombs went off. No, wait… she would have starved, after our father died. I suppose it's good that I was around then, so that I could save her from some suffering.

And Peeta would be dead now, if not for me. He never would have won the Games. He also never would have been tortured in the Capitol.

I think of when I saw him, planting the primroses. For Prim, he said, but really for me. I hated the way he eyed my oily hair. I hate that he doesn't understand.

…doesn't understand loss? Doesn't understand sadness and pain? Doesn't understand what it's like to feel completely alone? Of course he understands those things. He must.

Another thing I've taken to doing: internally arguing with myself and questioning every single opinion I manage to form. Or did I always do that? It's hard to remember. It's hard to remember what I used to do, how I used to be. But I try.

When I was ten, I still spent time with my father. Hunting in the woods, swimming in the lake, learning to shoot. When I was eleven, I nearly starved, but didn't because of _him_. When I was twelve, I met Gale and eventually became close to him in ways I never thought I would be close to anyone. When I was sixteen, I took my sister's place in the Hunger Games. I was burned, stung, deafened, cut. Then repaired, superficially.

I don't want to think about what happened after that. I don't want to think about the time between the Games and the Quell, or what happened in the Quell. Letting myself be separated from Peeta was the worst mistake of my life.

I can't help smiling sardonically. What a ridiculous thought. The worst mistake of my life? How could it be? More accurately, it was the start of the bad things. The _really_ bad things, that is. Because even being a tribute in the Games, for the first time, was nothing compared to -

Prim. Letting Prim die was my worst mistake…only, did I let her die? Was it my fault? I wish I could go back to the day that Gale showed me the bomb he and Beetee were designing. I wish I could scream at them to stop and tell them they were going too far. I wish I hadn't been so passive. I should have asked to see how it worked so that I could detonate it right then and there and get rid of it and the people who created it.

No, wait…we were still in Thirteen, so it would have been too dangerous to detonate it, because Prim might have been endangered by it anyway. Otherwise, that would have been the right thing to do. I should have left Gale and Beetee, found a way to get Prim aboveground and then gone back to set off the bomb.

But what if it wasn't Gale's bomb? Is that a possibility? Maybe there was nothing I could do. Maybe Prim's fate was sealed the moment I shook those berries out of the pouch and into Peeta's and my hands. That was the spark that lead to the rebellion which lead to what happened to Prim. I should have done something differently in the arena during the Games, but what? At the time, I couldn't imagine doing anything other than what we did. I _couldn't_ kill him and he was refusing to kill me.

I have to remind myself that it doesn't help to think like this, because sometimes I harm myself physically while I obsess over the past. Now, I've bitten into my lip and can taste blood. There's nothing to do but swallow it, even though that makes me nauseous. Or was I nauseous already?

Over and over and over, these thoughts run through my head. There doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I get headaches for no apparent reason. Sometimes I wonder if they're from thinking too much.

I bite at my bottom lip again, this time peeling off the skin on the outside until it's raw. Sometimes I bite at the insides of my cheeks and my tongue too. When I run the undamaged tip of my tongue along my cheeks, I feel texture, little craters made by my teeth. It's senseless, but I don't do it on purpose. I do it while I'm thinking. I wish I could say it was a distraction from the thoughts, but it isn't.

I feel droplets falling onto my hands. Another crying day.

I wonder what he's doing right now. Is he thinking about me? Does he hate me? No. Even though he should hate me, I know he doesn't. But doesn't he remember that every bad thing that's happened to him is my fault? I dropped the tracker jacker nest on him and he got stung and was in no condition to fight Cato for me. I _had_ to get the medicine for him, because it was my fault he had the cut and infection, and I still owed him because of the bread. I didn't protect him enough at the end of the Games, so he was wounded again, and nearly bled to death.

I didn't protect him in the Quell either. Finnick had to restart his heart. I didn't stay with him, and then I didn't try hard enough to find him again. I let him get captured. I let him be tortured and hijacked. He told me once that I was his whole life. Once he was hijacked, and hated me, he had nothing. Though come to think of it, if I was all he had, he had nothing before the hijacking either. If I'd been different, maybe it would have been more difficult to make him hate me. Maybe it would have been impossible.

But I'm not different. All the hijacking really did was enable him see me the way he should have seen me all along. But he was blinded by something, something I've never really understood.

_He_. I'm not sure why I so rarely think his name. Peeta. There. Maybe I don't need to use his name, in my mind, because he's the only _he_ who matters to me. The only person who matters to me, really.

My mother and Gale are out of sight, and mostly out of mind. Haymitch is here but I would never worry about him. Peeta is the only person who might…what?

Whose life might be improved by having me in it? Maybe. Not because of me, but because of how he might still feel about me, on some level. I know that the way he used to care about me was never about _me_. How could it be? We have nothing in common and all I've ever done is hurt him.

For some reason, he liked my singing voice and thought I was a cute child. Then he got into the habit of liking me and eventually loved me because I took care of him in the Games. That's all it was. He remembered the little girl who had a relatively easy life. The girl with two parents and a baby sister at home. He was sucked in somehow and unable to forget about me, even though it would have been in his best interest to just give up, and never have anything to do with me. The girl who caught his eye, years ago, has been gone for a long time.

I don't understand why he still wanted to be with me after we got to know each other. Even after I told him, during the trip home from the Games, that I basically wanted nothing to do with him. That would have been the time for any normal person to begin hating me, or at least trying to move on. Why didn't Peeta? I've never understood him, but I've never really tried before. What was the point, when I didn't have to do anything to earn his love? When it was always there, constant and dependable…until the hijacking. He doesn't make any sense to me. How could he love so unconditionally? How could he be so forgiving?

…what does it matter? I really can't afford to think about him, not when I still have to struggle to get out of bed each morning. Earlier today, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the first time since getting home. I wasn't sure what to make of my face. It's thin, paler than usual but not pale like him, and it looked _blank_. I don't know what other word to use. I don't like the way I look.

I remember after the Games when I was desperately watching the doctors start to work on Peeta. People in the hovercraft were keeping a safe distance from me and when I caught sight of my own reflection and saw that I looked mad and feral, I understood their evasiveness. My face now isn't as unnerving as that one was, but it's comparable. Different, but still squirm inducing.

I touch my hair again and glance down at my clean clothes. Until you're clean again, you don't really realize how unsettling it is to be unclean. I'm going to try to stay like this. It's not as if I have anything else to do. There's plenty of time to shower. Every day, even.

I know that I think too much, but there's nothing to do besides think. What else do you do when you're alone, with so many memories? A lifetime's worth, squeezed into a few of short years. Now that Peeta's back, he's just one more thing to consider. He doesn't feature too prominently in my thoughts, not compared to Prim and the others who have been lost, but he's there.

* * *

><p>I've started to come back to life. I do what Dr. Aurelius says, just going through the motions. Occasionally one seems to have meaning. Peeta comes over for every meal now but we don't talk much. He brings bread and I thank him. Sometimes I find myself staring across the table at him while he eats, unable to look away. I keep asking myself why he's even here. I tell myself it's because, like Haymitch and me, he didn't have anywhere else to go. But a part of me knows that's not all there is to it. It's hard to accept that he's here for me. I still care about him and I don't want to disappoint him, but I know I will. It's what I do.<p>

I recover enough to go hunting without collapsing and having to be brought back in a cart. I stop expecting to see Gale materialize magically when I open my eyes. I give the game to Sae and she cooks it for us. Peeta and me. Us.

I don't spend time in my closet anymore. In fact, I find another place where I like to go. It seems a bit strange to go straight from the confines of the closet to the complete freedom of my new spot: the roof. But I love it.

The first time I go out there, it's a day that is more or less like any other. I feel cooped up in the house, but don't feel like company, so I don't want to go to Peeta's or Haymitch's. I'm too tired to walk into town or to the woods. I'm in my room, fidgeting with my braid, on the verge of screaming or crying or something. The room seems stifling, so I go to the window and push it open. A balmy breeze sweeps over me and I feel like I can breathe again. I lean my head out and take a deep breath, then look down at the roof outside my gabled window. It's slanted at first, then is straight for several feet before the edge. There's plenty of room. I lean my upper body back inside, stick one foot out, then the other. The window frame scrapes against the scars on my lower back and it hurts enough to make me cry out. I'll have to be more careful climbing back in.

I slowly walk down the slope and reach the flat part of the roof. I stand there, looking all around. I have a good view of all the other houses in the Victor's Village. Some trees, some open grassy space in the distance. It's nice, so I decide to stay for a while and sit down. I don't know how long I spend there, out in the sun and wind, before I hear him call to me.

"What are you doing?"

I move closer to the edge of the roof to look down at him. "Nothing," I say, watching as Peeta's arms raise from his sides. "What are _you_ doing?"

"Getting ready to catch you," he says.

"I'm not going to fall."

"I know you won't _fall_."

I glare at him and scoot away from the edge, so that he'll have to move away from the house in order to see me again. I can't really blame him for thinking I might jump, but he's wrong. If I was going to jump, I would have done it already. And jumping would be stupid anyway, because I'd probably live and might end up paralyzed.

"Katniss!" He's not shouting exactly, just calling to me again.

"Leave me alone." I close my eyes and tilt my face up toward the sky, letting the sun soak in. It isn't too bright out, but I can see red through my eyelids.

"I can't."

I tilt my head back down and look at Peeta, who has moved away from the house enough to see me. "You don't have to worry about me, all right? If you're so scared, just come up here."

He looks distraught as he stares up at me. I wonder what he's thinking. But then he nods his head and walks toward my house, disappearing from my view again. I wait patiently, wondering why I asked him to join me. This was supposed to be my special place to be alone. I didn't think it through, before the words were out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I really want him up here with me but it's too late to send him away now.

I see him at the window. He tentatively sticks his good leg out and, more carefully than I, climbs through the window frame. Peeta has a bit of a hard time walking down the slope because of his leg. I find myself standing up, thinking I might have to be the one to catch him, but he reaches me safely and we both sit down.

"Perfectly safe," I say with a dismissive wave. Peeta doesn't respond, he just looks at me. "What?" I ask, once his stare has started to make me feel uncomfortable. I would be lying if I said I wasn't still a little nervous around him. He never used to look at me like this.

"I worry about you," he says softly.

I surprise myself as much as him when I reach out and place a hand over his, which is resting on his knee. I keep my eyes locked on Peeta's as I say, "Don't." _I'm not going to do anything foolish, I'm not _that_ far gone_…_not anymore, at least_.

He smiles just a little and says, "Can't help it." He glances away from me, toward the edge of the roof. "I do worry, Katniss. Whenever we're apart, I think about you and wonder what you might be doing."

It seems like it's hard for him to admit this, though I'm not sure why. We still spend most of our time apart. Peeta comes over for every meal, along with Sae, but other than that I spend all my time alone, and I assume he does too.

I decide to tell him about my idea and about the large box of parchment sheets that arrived from the Capitol yesterday. "I got the idea from the plant book," I say, and Peeta looks riveted as he watches me explain, "I was thinking we could make it a kind of tribute to all the things we should remember, about…the people who we won't see again. If you want to help, I thought maybe you could draw pictures of everyone I don't have a photo of."

When I feel his hands take both of mine in his larger and warmer ones, I realize that my eyes are watering and my voice had started to shake. I lick my dry lips as the tears start to overflow.

"I would love to work on that with you," he says softly, and with a smile. "It's a great idea."

I nod and swallow hard, pulling a hand away from his in order to wipe the tears off my face. I press my lips together tightly and look away from Peeta. I want him to hug me, but he doesn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do now own _The Hunger Games_.

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><p>I hunt regularly now. When I go to the woods I'm reminded of how much everything outside of them has changed. Hunting is one thing that I've held on to from my old life, before the Games. I have a different house and spend my time with different people, but the woods, and how they make me feel, are the same.<p>

Today I see a single bone hanging from a wire and realize it must be leftover from one of Gale's successful snares that he never came back to check. The animal caught must have been eaten by scavengers, birds probably. I don't know why, but I find myself walking through some brush, leaning and reaching out for it through the branches. I can't quite get it and when my heels return to the ground, I feel my hair get yanked taut. It jerks my head back a little and makes me panic for a second. I feel trapped, confined. As if I'm back in Thirteen, under the ground, or imprisoned in my room in the Capitol again.

I gasp and quickly reach over, tugging my hair free. The braid is loosened in a spot and I glare at it, then at the branch that caught it. My eyes travel over to the snare, with its single bone, and I glare at that, for causing this. What did I want with it anyway? I start toward home, already forming my plan in my mind. I don't ever want that to happen again. My head feels heavy, as if the branch is still pulling at me. When I reach my house in the Victor's Village I toss my kills into the refrigerator, then take a pair of scissors out of a drawer in the kitchen and make my way to the downstairs bathroom.

I hold the end of my braid in my hand and look at it in the mirror. I remember my mother braiding it up on reaping day. My prep team fussing over it. Part of it getting singed off during the Games. Peeta fidgeting with it, loose, on the roof of the Training Center. Gale's hand over it, pressing it into my back while we kiss.

Before I can change my mind, I position the blades of the scissors around my braid and start to force them together. My hair is fairly thick, so it requires a lot of seemingly blunt chopping, but the long hairs start to narrow and eventually they're all severed, and I'm holding the braid in my hand. It's limp and reminiscent of a dead thing, so I quickly toss it into the little trash bin next to the sink.

I've made a mess of my hair. It's shorter in the back, longer in the front. I do my best to even it out but it's still choppy and far from perfect. I don't really care though. I've never had it this short…not since I was a small child, at least. It's strange how light my head seems to feel, almost as if it's floating up.

I go into the living room and sit on the couch. I've returned from my hunt earlier than I usually do, but don't have to wait long for Sae to arrive and start cooking. She always comes in the back door, which leads to the kitchen, and rarely makes it out of that room.

I have a headache and start to rub at my forehead while I listen to the occasional sounds of a pot clattering or the refrigerator being shut. When I hear Peeta's knock on the front door, I stand up, walk to the door and open it. He's smiling a little and holding a bag that I know contains bread.

"Good morning." Peeta's smile fades as I watch his eyes travel around my head. "What did you do to your hair?"

The way he's looking at me reminds me of when we saw each other for the first time after he came back to Twelve, when he eyed my matted clumps of hair. And I don't like the question he's asked. It doesn't really matter to me if I have Peeta's approval on this matter, but he could have phrased his response differently. _Oh, you cut your hair. Oh, that's a change. What made you decide to cut your hair? _Any one of those reactions would have been preferable, and not made it sound as if he thinks I've done something wrong.

"Mourning gesture," I say quickly, but I don't think it's the truth. The truth is that I was sick of it. It was one little thing I had control over, one thing I had the ability to change about myself. I step aside, holding the door open, and he walks past me into the house. "You don't have to knock," I say. "I mean, you can come in whenever you want." _You're always welcome_…

"Okay," he says over his shoulder as he leads the way into the kitchen. Sae is standing at the stove and her granddaughter sits at the table. She's holding a wooden spoon, stirring it around in an empty frying pan. Peeta smiles at the girl and says, "Good morning." She smiles back and lifts her hand, opening and closing it in a kind of wave. I wave back to her.

Sae turns to face Peeta and me. "You might want to go outside," she says casually, tilting her head slightly toward the back door. "Your neighbor seems to be having a problem."

She's talking about Haymitch, of course. I wonder what he's doing outside. Peeta glances at me questioningly and I give a little shrug, then follow him out the door. We see Haymitch right away, and cross the grassy space that joins his yard with mine. Peeta and I both stand over him and look down. Haymitch is lying facedown in the grass with his hands raised so that they rest, palms down, on each side of his head. I wonder if he's able to breathe properly.

"Haymitch," I say flatly, knowing he won't answer. I glance up at Peeta. "You don't think he's…dead?"

Peeta half-smiles, probably surprised by my question. "I'll check." He bends down and flips Haymitch over. Now that he's on his back, it's obvious that he is breathing. "Haymitch!" Peeta calls his name a couple of times and gets no response. He tries shaking him gently and tapping his face.

"You're going to have to do more than that," I say, remembering when I had to dump freezing cold water on Haymitch in order to wake him up.

Peeta glances up at me. "You do it," he says.

I bend down and give Haymitch a slap in the face. Nothing. I shake him more roughly than Peeta did. Still nothing. "Do you think he's been out here all night?" I ask.

"Probably." Peeta stands up and walks toward Haymitch's house. When he returns, he holds the hose out toward me. "You're going to have to spray him."

I stand up and take the hose, almost smiling. "Why me? Because he already hates me?"

"Because you're his favorite and it won't _make_ him hate you," Peeta says with a grin.

I roll my eyes. We had a conversation just like this in the cave. I wonder if he remembers it. "Fine," I say. I give the handle on the hose spout a test squeeze, and water shoots out, missing Haymitch's unconscious form. I glance up at Peeta one more time and he gives me a nod of encouragement. I aim the hose down and squeeze the handle.

Haymitch's hands fly up to cover his face and he starts coughing and sputtering, then he sits up and one of his hands starts flying out. I release the handle, stopping the flow of water. He coughs some more, then glares up at me. "_You_," he says. A string of expletives follows.

"We tried calling your name -" I tell him.

"And shaking you -" Peeta adds.

"And slapping you," I say.

"We were worried."

I glance at Peeta and wonder if he really was worried. It didn't seem like he was, and we really should be used to this kind of thing from Haymitch by now.

"Right," Haymitch says sardonically. He's facing the ground and clutching at his head.

"What happened?" I ask.

Haymitch mumbles something that sounds like "Don't remember."

"You should come to breakfast, I brought plenty of bread," says Peeta.

Haymitch glances at Peeta, then glares at me. "Maybe if I survive the pneumonia, I will."

I scoff. "It's not even cold."

"The water was," he snaps.

Peeta reaches a hand down toward Haymitch and pulls him to his feet, then starts leading him into his house. "We'll be right over," Peeta calls to me. I assume he's going to help Haymitch get changed into some dry clothes. I go back to my kitchen and take my usual seat.

Sae is just setting breakfast out on the table when Haymitch comes crashing through the door, followed by Peeta. It only takes Haymitch three tries to successfully sit down in the empty chair next to me, and then Peeta takes his usual seat across from me. Sae takes hold of her granddaughter's wrist and leads her toward the door.

"'Morning," she says, and the screen door falls shut behind them.

As usual, we don't talk much while we eat. Haymitch alternates between resting his head in his hands and taking the occasional bite of the food in front of him. He doesn't seem to be very hungry. When I'm nearly done with my food, I see him staring at me through narrowed eyes. "There's something different about you," he says slowly.

"I don't know what you mean."

"She cut her hair," says Peeta, staring down at his food.

Haymitch nods. "It's a mess," he says with a smirk.

_So are you_. But I don't feel the need to tell him this; he knows.

"How have you been lately?" Haymitch asks me. I wonder if Dr. Aurelius ever calls him to check up on me. If Haymitch has been told to keep an eye on me, he's not doing a very good job.

"I've been really great," I say dismissively. But I assume it's obvious that the only thing that's improved significantly is my sarcasm.

Haymitch chuckles. "Good. That was easy." He glances over at Peeta. "You?"

"Better all the time," Peeta says. We eat in silence for another minute or so, and then Peeta's the first to finish his food. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, then washes it and puts it in the dish drainer before turning to face me again. "I guess I should get him home," he says with a glance at Haymitch, who is now face-down on the table.

I feel like I should say something but don't know what. "Do you want to…get started on the memory book today?" I blurt out.

Peeta looks a little surprised. "Now?"

I still have a headache and don't really feel like doing any writing at the moment, but I tend to have more energy at night lately. "Well, maybe this evening after dinner?"

"Sure. I'll see you at dinner," Peeta says. He returns to the table and lightly shakes Haymitch, then slings his arm around his shoulders, and they walk out the door together. I hear Haymitch say something about pills for a migraine, and Peeta responds in a placating tone.

"See you then," I say softly, once the door has closed behind them.

I don't like it when Peeta leaves. I don't understand why he's always so quick to go, after breakfast and dinner. Is it still difficult for him to be around me too much? Does he still have a hard time remembering what's real? He hasn't asked me about the past in a long time, maybe not at all since he came back to Twelve. It's hard to remember, though.

With the fingers of my left hand, I start rubbing my forehead again, then I stand up and return to the couch in the living room, where I lie down and close my eyes. I felt a fleeting kind of hopefulness when Haymitch asked Peeta how he was doing, but his vague answer was unsatisfying. Maybe _I_ should just ask him how he's doing. But what if he doesn't want to talk about it? What if he says that he still gets confused and thinks he might hate me in some ways, because of the hijacking? I don't think he'd hurt me again, physically. I'm sure they were careful before releasing him from the Capitol.

I guess I haven't asked because I'm afraid of what he might say. I don't think he hates me but it doesn't seem like he feels the way he used to, either. I turn toward the back of the couch and bury my face against the cushion. My headache is getting worse.

* * *

><p>After dinner, we go into the living room and Peeta surprises me when he reaches out and pinches some of my hair between his thumb and first two fingers. "Can I fix it?" he asks.<p>

"You know how to cut hair?"

"Anyone can cut hair," he says with a shrug. "I can draw a straight line, so I'm sure I can cut one."

_Why not?_ "If you think it matters." I guess I can understand his wanting to fix it, I do look like a bit of a mess. "I left the scissors in the bathroom."

Peeta wordlessly leaves the room. I follow him and see him setting the bathroom stool in front of the mirror. I try to look at him but he seems to be intentionally avoiding my gaze, so I step into the room and sit down, facing the mirror.

Peeta is surprisingly confident. He quickly makes a few quick snips without hesitation. Before long I have a perfect, almost shoulder length hair cut. I'm surprised when he reaches over my head, gets a comb and then starts running it through my hair. It feels funny when he reaches the end after each stroke. There's a little pull and then nothing. Emptiness.

He makes a straight part, down the middle, and combs it flat again, then sets the comb down on the sink counter and we stare at each other in the mirror. "Let me do yours," I say, noticing for the first time that his hair is little longer than he usually keeps it.

Peeta smiles and I know he's teasing me when he says, "Don't mess it up."

"Anyone can cut hair," I say, rolling my eyes. We switch places, so he's sitting on the stool in front of me and I'm holding the scissors. I feel incredibly unsure of myself.

"Just find places where it seems too long and make it shorter," Peeta says, sensing my hesitation.

_Obviously_, I think. I try to do as he says, starting in the back and working my way forward. I take bits of his hair between my index and middle fingers, pull it straight and then cut it. I actually do pretty well, but now it's a bit shorter than he used to keep it. When I'm done, Peeta looks at me in the mirror and smiles. "Thank you," he says.

I'm still playing with his hair, running the fingers of my free hand through the waves. Realizing this makes me pull my hand away as if I've been shocked. I don't want to see Peeta's reaction to this, so I set the scissors down, say "You're welcome" and leave the room without another glance at him.

I assume he gets my broom and cleans up the hair that we both carelessly let fall to the floor, because by the time Peeta joins me in the living room I've already set out the paper and other materials that we're going to use to make the book. I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the couch and Peeta takes a seat across from me so that his pencils and paint, and the paper, are between us on the coffee table. I pick up a sheet and examine it. It's twelve inches by twelve inches, I'd say, and thick. More like cardstock than normal paper. I'll have to make sure to thank Dr. Aurelius.

"Prim?" he suggests.

I nod. "I've been trying to think of the best way to show her. I was thinking maybe helping someone in the hospital in Thirteen, but maybe that's not right…" _Too sad, too much of a reminder of how she died_.

"I was thinking about her too," Peeta says. "I have an idea."

"What?"

Peeta reaches out and takes a piece of paper out of the box, placing it in front of him on the table, then he picks up one of his drawing pencils. "Can I surprise you?"

"Oh," I say, already surprised that he even has something in mind for my sister. "Sure."

Peeta smiles, then looks at the paper in front of him. His blond-lashed eyes almost appear to be closed as he stares down, watching his own hand move across the paper. While he concentrates, his face takes on that special look, the one that I remember seeing when we worked on the plant book together. This expression is more intense and removed than his usual ones, and he's biting his bottom lip a little. I feel myself smiling slightly, glad that this part of him seems unchanged.

I notice that the movements of his hand started out small, but have gotten bigger. Maybe he began with the details of her face and then proceeded to draw the rest of her body.

I can't help thinking that this is nice. When I'm with Peeta, I feel better. I want to start spending even more time with him.

I don't know how long I've been staring at him, but it's a bit embarrassing when he looks up and his eyes meet mine. He smiles. "Ready?"

I nod and force a smile. Peeta lifts up the paper, holding it in front of him so that his blue eyes are just visible over the top of it. I stare at the picture and my smile becomes a genuine one. Peeta has drawn Prim in a grassy, outdoor setting. Prim is sitting on her knees and has a sweet smile on her face. Her chin is tilted toward Lady, who's licking her cheek.

I blink back tears and say, "It's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," Peeta says, lifting a hand and pointing to a blank spot in the corner of the paper. "I thought we could put a photo here. You have one, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "There must be one of her alone. Upstairs, probably."

"Great," Peeta says, sliding the picture toward me. I take another piece of paper out of the box and hand it to Peeta.

"Your father?" I suggest.

Peeta nods and starts to draw. I look down at the blank space on the paper in front of me. _I loved Prim more than anyone else in the world_, I want to write. But that feels wrong. I think for a moment and realize that it is too much about me. I don't want this to read as if it's my diary, I'd rather it resemble a story or article. _Everyone loved Prim_, I begin, in my most careful handwriting. I go on to describe how much she loved Buttercup and Lady and what a good helper she was to my mother. How she wasn't squeamish and didn't shy away from sick people. She loved to look at Peeta's cakes and she wanted to be a doctor. By the time I'm done, more than a few tears have dripped on the page. I wipe my eyes and start to blow on the wet spots. "I've ruined it," I say.

Peeta looks up from his sketch, then down at the tear-stained words. He smiles just a little and then his eyes meet mine. "It's not ruined, just sealed with saltwater."

I nod. "Okay." We'll think of it that way. At least I didn't cry on the drawing.

We swap papers and I write about Peeta's father trading with me generously, and the cookies he brought me. How he was always kind and assured me, before I left for the Games, that Prim would be all right. "I left some room for you to write about your father," I tell Peeta, holding up the partially blank sheet.

Peeta nods, taking the paper from me and setting it on the table next to him. "I'll give it some thought," he says, then resumes painting the picture of Prim.

I realize that I might want to devote even more pages to Prim, and am glad these sheets are all loose for now. But we've made a good start. Peeta has just finished colorizing the picture of her when he stands up. "I'm going to get some water," he says. "Do you want anything?"

I look up at him and realize how formal we've been with each other since we got back to Twelve. I don't like it. It reminds me of the way we acted around one another after the Games and before the victory tour. I remember seeing him at Haymitch's house the morning we left for the tour. Peeta politely offered me some bread, which I even more politely declined. _"Brrr,"_ Haymitch said, _"you two have got a lot of warming up to do before show time."_

Does Peeta think I want him to talk to me like that? Maybe. It is the way I talk to him. But I'm not really sure what to make of him. He's recovered from the hijacking, as far as I can tell. But he's not the way he used to be; he's more subdued. Maybe he sees me the same way and isn't sure what to think about me either.

I want to be friends, though. After everything we've been through together, and now that we're all each other has, it would be nice if we could be more comfortable around one another. I force a smile that I hope looks warm and welcoming. "No, thank you."

There's a flicker of something in his face. His eyes seem to light up for just a second and he returns my smile, before nodding his head and leaving the room. I stare down at the lovely picture of Prim and feel so relieved that Peeta is here to help me with the book and keep me company. If he hadn't come back here, what would I be doing now? The book would have no pictures, or maybe I would be attempting stick figure drawings. There certainly would not be any beautiful and vivid colors like this. He's perfectly captured the bright shade of her hair.

I want to tell him I'm happy he's here. Though, maybe 'happy' isn't the right word because I don't know if I am _happy_. But I'm glad. I should tell him, when he comes back. I should just say, _Peeta, I'm glad you're here. Thank you for helping me with this. The pictures are lovely._

What's taking him so long? "Peeta?" I call out. The only answer I receive is the sound of glass shattering.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

* * *

><p><em>What's wrong? <em>I stand up and walk across the living room, past the stairs and to the doorway of the kitchen. Peeta's there, clutching the back of a chair. His head is bowed and I can't see his face, but he seems to be having a hard time breathing. I tentatively approach him and see that his grip on the chair is a white-knuckled one. It's unnerving, but he is obviously having a hard time so I force myself to stay in the room. I want to help him.

"Peeta?" I say softly.

He shakes his head minutely and pulls away from the chair, and away from me, until his back hits the nearby wall. His head is still down and now he's clutching at his hair and looks as if he's going to pull handfuls of it out. I take this as a bad sign. I wonder if whatever is happening could cause him to be a danger to me, so I back away until we're on opposite sides of the room. I can hardly bear to look at Peeta while he's like this, but can't manage to tear my eyes away. I know this is because of what happened to him in the Capitol, because I couldn't protect him in the Quell. All I wanted to do was keep him safe and I failed miserably.

Slowly, he starts to relax. His hands loosen and fall to his sides, his hunched body straightens, and finally he lifts his face and he opens his eyes, blinking a couple of times. I start to walk toward him and he makes no move to stop me. He merely stares straight ahead of him, seemingly as if he's looking right through me.

"Peeta?" I say tentatively, and he nods. "Are you all right?" He nods again. "What happened?" I'm not sure if I'm supposed to ask this, or if he would rather not discuss it. It looked like he was having some kind of relapse.

"It's happened a few times since I got back," Peeta says, looking down at the floor. "I don't really know how to describe it. It's like I relive some of what happened in the Capitol, but the shiny memories are there too." His eyes, which are more focused now, raise to meet mine and he winces. "I can usually put up with it, but sometimes… it's just too much." I reach a hand out toward him and he stares at it for a second, then gives it a quick and gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry I scared you," Peeta says, stepping away from the wall. "And sorry about the glass."

Before I can respond he's left the room. When he returns with the broom and dustpan, I find the words. "You don't have to be sorry. It's not your fault." _It's mine_.

I watch for a few seconds as he sweeps the broken glass into the dustpan, then I return to the living room. I put away the papers that don't have any wet paint on them, deciding that we've worked enough for today. I'm just sitting down on the couch when Peeta comes back into the room. What just happened is a reminder that, in some ways, things are worse for him than they are for me. I have plenty of grief and the nightmares, but Peeta has a whole different kind of torment. While I don't think I'm in a position to help anyone, I feel like I have to at least try.

He sits beside me on the couch and glances down at the packed up materials on the table. "Done for the day?"

"It's getting late," I say. "Um…you know you can talk to me, right? About anything. I mean, if it would help."

Peeta nods and his mouth curves up, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. They stay stony. "Thanks, it might." He pauses and I see his eyes traveling over my face. "You know you can talk to me too?"

"Okay." _Maybe I will_.

We stay like this, with our eyes locked, for a few seconds, then he glances toward the window. "I guess I should get home." His gaze returns to mine for just a moment before he stands up and walks toward the door. "Goodnight, Katniss."

The words are there, in my mind. I want to ask him to stay, so we can help each other. So that he can fight away my nightmares and I can soothe him through whatever just happened to him, should it occur again. But I can't. Maybe I'm too afraid of the way he had to throw himself away from me. Maybe I don't think we're ready for that kind of closeness yet. "Goodnight" is the only word I can manage before I hear the door click shut behind him.

I go upstairs and wash my face and brush my teeth, then climb into the big empty bed. The sheets feel cool and I wish he was here to help me warm them up. I wish I'd asked him to stay. I shouldn't be afraid of him. If he was going to hurt me, wouldn't he have done it by now?

I want to tell myself that he would never hurt me, but I know that's not true. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in his eyes when he started to choke me in Thirteen, or when he tried to attack me when we were with the Star Squad.

But he's not like that anymore. Everything about him is different. He's kind again and wants to help me. He planted the primroses for me and helped me with the book, and came to Twelve just to be with me. Although…I can't help wondering if he might be worried about hurting me. Otherwise, wouldn't he have offered to stay?

I think of his words during the Quell, _"You're my whole life."_ I bury my head under my pillow, but it's no use, there is no escaping the thoughts in my head. There's no escaping the fear that I might understand, now, how Peeta felt when he said that to me. He's all I have left.

I can't sleep. I toss and turn for what feels like forever, but when I look at my bedside clock I see that it's only been about an hour. I get out of bed and walk to the window. The lights are all off in Peeta's house. I wonder if he's sleeping, and assume that he must still struggle with nightmares too. Though I don't see how they could be any worse than what I saw happen to him before he left tonight.

I pad over to my other window and see a light on in Haymitch's house.

I can't stand being in this room anymore. I quickly pull on a pair of pants and sweatshirt, then go down the stairs and leave my house. I reach Haymitch's front door and knock, knowing I won't get any reply. After a few seconds, I turn the knob and go inside. The living room is a terrible mess, as always, and Haymitch is nowhere in sight. I make my way into the kitchen and find him there, slumped at the table, white liquor bottle in hand. His eyes raise when he sees me. "Two visits in one day?" He smirks. "Don't tell me you have boy trouble."

I wordlessly sit down across from him at the table and fold my arms over my chest.

Haymitch takes a long swig out of his bottle, then stares at me. "Well?"

He's more perceptive of my actions than I am. I didn't come here with the intention of talking to him, I just had to get out of my house. But now I realize that I do want to talk to someone. I stare at the bottle in his hand. I remember drinking with him when I found out about the Quell, but I also remember the terrible headache and sickness that followed. Though it would probably make me drowsy… "Can I have a sip?"

"No," Haymitch says quickly, then adds, "you don't want to go down that road." He takes another drink. "Why are you really here?"

I shake my head and look away from him, toward the dark window.

"How about I guess? Like a game. Decipher the sweetheart's scowl and win a prize."

"I don't have any prizes to give you," I say flatly.

He chuckles. "All right, the prize will be the fun of getting to know you better."

"Fine."

"You want to be at Peeta's house right now, but you're too stubborn to even tell him that you're glad he came back here. Am I in the ballpark?"

"What does that even mean?" I ask, choosing to focus on the last, and least frustrating, part of what he's just said.

"Don't know, my father used to say it." When I fail to respond any more, he says, "All right, I guessed wrong. You want to talk national news? Did you know they're thinking of re-naming the country The United Districts of Panem?"

I scoff. "That's not even a _name_, it's…"

He smirks, and I realize he's made this up.

"Funny." Now Haymitch doesn't respond; we're both silent for a minute or so. Eventually, I say quietly, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"About what?"

"Everything. I don't know…" I take a deep breath and try to collect my thoughts. "I mean, I understand what's wrong with him and why he's like this. But he's so different from how he used to be."

Haymitch's eyebrows raise. "Is he?"

"Of course," I say quickly.

"Doesn't seem like it to me. But I don't spend nearly as much time with him as you do."

"I don't spend a lot of time with him either."

"Why not?"

"He always leaves. He doesn't want to be around me."

Haymitch lets out a kind of laugh. "Why would you say that?"

"Because he always leaves," I snap.

"And you don't want him to leave?" he asks, and I shake my head. "Would've fooled me."

"What do you mean?"

Haymitch shrugs. "At breakfast, it seemed like you didn't want either one of us there."

"I -" I shake my head again. "That's not -"

"Maybe he's just tired. Did you ever think of that? That he's tired of the way you act toward him? Maybe he's been humiliated enough, and isn't going to do anything without some encouragement."

I never humiliated Peeta! I couldn't help the way I felt, or didn't feel, toward him. I've never been able to afford the kind of love he wanted from me. I feel angry and am forming a snappy retort in my mind when I feel a sort of pang. What if Haymitch is right? I try to think. I asked Peeta to work on the book with me and I put my hand on his the other day. Maybe that's not enough.

But doesn't he remember that I wouldn't give up on him when we were with Squad 451? Doesn't he remember asking to be left behind, and my refusal? The kiss? The hug goodbye, later on? He must know that I care about him.

I lean back in my chair. "You don't have to thank me," Haymitch says, obviously noticing how lost in thought I am.

I bite my lip and try to think of what I should do. I do want to spend more time with Peeta, but have no idea what to say to him. I don't want him to misunderstand and think I want to be anything more than his friend. I'm not ready for that. But I would like him to start staying overnight. It was so much easier to sleep when he was there to comfort me after the nightmares, and I think his presence even prevented them sometimes.

Although I can't help thinking that if he does start sleeping over, it will mean something. I always told myself that it didn't in the past, but there's something intimate about sharing a bed with someone who's not a relative. I can't imagine sleeping next to anyone else I've considered a friend in the past…Madge, Johanna, Finnick, even Gale. They could have offered consoling words, or even a hug, but the idea of seeking comfort from any one of them would have never occurred to me. I've only ever wanted to be with Peeta in that way. He's _different_. I tell myself that he's a different _kind _of friend, but can't help thinking that we're really not friends at all. Perhaps we never were, and maybe we never can be.

I lean forward, burying my face in my hands.

* * *

><p>"Do you want to go to your house? I haven't seen it in a while," I say after breakfast, "we could work there for a change." <em>I spend too much time here<em>.

"All right," Peeta says with a smile.

"Good," I say, standing up. I pick up the box of papers for the book and Peeta and I go to his house. I set everything down on the coffee table in his living room, then notice a small box of tapes next to the television set. "What are those?" I ask, even though I have a pretty good idea.

"Oh," he says, looking down as if he's ashamed of something. "The Games, the Quell, the interviews."

I find it interesting that they're sitting right out in the open. "You watch them a lot?"

"Dr. Aurelius said it would be good to watch them once in a while, to help me remember what's real. I don't watch them all the way through but sometimes I remember something shiny and it's good to have them on hand so I can correct the memory."

"It helps?"

"It helps a lot, I think. Those are the same ones they used _before_. Mostly just clips of us."

"Should I watch them?" I don't know why I'm asking Peeta this question, if anything I should ask Dr. Aurelius the next time he calls. I'm not sure why I would even want to watch them, but I feel compelled. At the very least, I'm interested to see the interviews.

"If you want. He told me it might also help me to recover from the Games, if I can get used to the memories, by reminding myself how things happened. It might help you too, in that way. So you can…accept it all." I nod my head and Peeta walks over to the box, then reaches a hand into it. "Should we start at the beginning?" he asks, with a small smile. I nod again and he takes a tape out, then examines it. "This one starts with the reaping."

"All right."

His eyes meet mine for just a second, then he walks over and puts the tape in, turning on the television before he joins me on the couch. We're about as far apart as can be, while still sitting on the same piece of furniture.

It starts with a shot of me standing on the stage, trying not to look scared, then Peeta's name is called and we see him walk up the steps and take his place beside me. Next, we watch ourselves riding in the chariot, holding hands, illuminated by Cinna's fire.

In my interview, I seem shy and am clearly nervous, but it doesn't go terribly. I spin around, showing off my dress. Then comes Peeta's interview. Seeing him like this, close up, is a bit shocking. His smooth skin, his bright, lively eyes and healthy body that has both whole legs. He and Caesar banter back and forth for a bit. Peeta makes the crowd laugh. His assured smile comes so easily.

I feel tears sliding down my cheeks and have a completely irrational desire. I want to stand up, run to the television and reach inside it. I want to take Peeta's hand and pull him out of there and into now, so he can be himself again. So that he doesn't have to go through the infection, losing his leg, the torture, the hijacking, being burned. I want to save him but I can't. I already had my chance.

I must have begun to cry audibly, because I feel the couch shift and see that Peeta has scooted over and is sitting right beside me. He reaches out for me, then hesitates, asking permission with his eyes. I nod and almost immediately feel his arms wrap around me for the first time since we said goodbye in the Capitol.

I tell myself that the boy in the video isn't gone, and that I can still help him. I have to try. He's here. It's not too late for him. He looks more similar now, to the boy in the video, than he did when we first got back here. The first time I saw him, when he was planting the primroses, he looked thin. But now, thanks to the baking and Sae's cooking, he's gained back the weight he'd lost.

I feel one of Peeta's hands rub my back while the other cradles my head against his chest. My own arms find their way around him and I take fistfuls of his shirt in my hands, gripping them firmly and pushing them against him. It's such a relief to hug him again. It's as if I've been unknowingly holding my breath ever since we said goodbye in the Capitol, and I can finally breathe again. Or like I've been incredibly tense, flexing every muscle in my body, and now I can relax. I almost feel like I could drift off to sleep, right here and now.

"What is it?" he asks. "I didn't think we were at the bad part yet."

I shake my head and feel my cheek rub against his chest as the tears continue to flow. He doesn't understand and I can't explain it to him. I don't know where I would even begin. "It's just…" I swallow hard, and figure it's now or never. I have to say _something_. "I miss you." It's only a whisper but it's enough.

Peeta draws back slightly so that we can look each other in the eyes, and the smile he gives me is as sweet as ever, just like the ones he had for Caesar and the crowd in the video. Then he's pulling me close again, hugging tighter than before. "You have me," he says, and my feeling of relief somehow manages to grow.

We turn back toward the television eventually, and Peeta stays on my side of the couch. He keeps his right arm wrapped securely around me while I hold his left hand in both of mine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

* * *

><p>I don't like watching myself drop the tracker jacker nest on the Careers and Peeta. "I wish you'd warned me before you did that," he says, but I can tell by his tone of voice that he's only teasing me.<p>

"I didn't know," I say, intentionally sounding more defensive than I really feel. "I wish you'd told _me_ that you were going to team up with them, so I would have been prepared."

"Would you've believed I was doing it for you?" he asks, turning to face me.

I bite my lip, knowing he's got a point. "Probably not. It was hard to believe any of it…the things you said in your interview." He smiles and I say seriously, "I wish I would have found a way to warn you." I wonder what might have happened if I'd thrown something at him, perhaps, to get his attention, and then gestured for him to move away. Peeta might have fared better in that fight with Cato, if he hadn't been stung. But I didn't know Peeta was on my side; the thought of helping him never even crossed my mind until the supposed rule change.

"I don't really blame you," Peeta says, and his arm tightens around me for a second. "I can understand how you must have felt." He gives me a reassuring smile and then we resume watching the tape.

I think it's good that we can discuss something like this in a relaxed way. I'm glad neither of us are still so affected by this incident that we actually feel angry or defensive about it. I bet Dr. Aurelius would say that this kind of talk is very helpful, and a step toward healing from the trauma of the Games.

We watch for a long time. We see me find Peeta, take him to the cave, drug him and inject the medicine into him. I try not to think about the ways in which these memories could have been altered and distorted for him in the Capitol. It feels a bit strange to watch the kissing parts, and hear all that talk from both of us about how much we cared for each other. But at the same time, I almost feel like it's not even us. We look younger in the video, aren't scarred and both have a kind of youthful innocence that's gone now. I had struggled before the Games, sure, but the things that have happened since then make my old life of hunting and being hungry seem trivial.

We see our reunion after the Games and then the interview with Caesar. I watch as I try to explain why I pulled out the berries, and almost fall to pieces when I learn that Peeta lost his leg. It's sad to see him lean his forehead against my temple, and ask what I'm going to do with him now that I've got him. He looked so happy. I think I was more upset about Peeta's leg than he was. The main thing he cared about was that he had me. He _thought_ he had me, anyway…

Now, I reach a hand up and place it on his cheek, then draw his head down and toward me, so that the side of his face is pressed against mine. I wrap my arms securely around his neck, anchoring us together. I don't even want to think of how sad I made him during the fuel stop on the way home.

We decide to take a break after the interview is over. The footage is riveting, but we're both hungry and it seems like a good place to stop. Peeta takes my hand and leads the way into the kitchen. I sit at the counter and he gets out two plates, then places some bread on each. I eat mine quickly.

As soon as Peeta is done with his, he breaks our silence. "Are you glad we watched it?"

I consider the question. There were some moments that were difficult, but overall I think it's good to watch the footage. The tapes have been edited so that we didn't have to see the other tributes dying off. Most of the parts with me and Peeta weren't very violent, not compared to some of the things I saw during the war, so I don't feel disturbed by what we've just seen. In fact, watching the clips of our time in the cave, after he'd started to recover, was almost comforting. It was like a reminder that we used to be more _normal_. I wish we could be like that again.

"Yes," I say. "I want to watch the Quell tapes, too. But maybe not just yet…not tomorrow."

"I understand," Peeta says, "we should take a break, for a few days even. It's a lot to take in. I've never done a marathon with them before."

We return to the living room and work on Rue's section in the book for a little while, then Peeta says that Sae is probably expecting us at my house. I pack up the pages and we head over, only beating her there by a few minutes. While she serves dinner, it occurs to me that maybe I should tell her that I'm all right now, and Peeta and I can manage to feed ourselves. But then I start to eat the food she's made from my game and remember that I'm no cook. And it doesn't seem like she minds cooking for us. Maybe it's a nice way to break up the day for her, and I still suspect that she's being compensated.

After dinner, Peeta and I resume working on Rue's page. His picture of her is lovely and vivid. She's on her toes, poised like a bird about to take flight. "It's beautiful," I tell him, staring down at the painting.

"Thank you," he says with a smile.

My words at the bottom of the page seem insignificant by comparison. But there are things the picture can't say. She's lovely and looks happy in the painting, but I wrote everything I knew about her. Her big family, her life in Eleven, her bird call. What she knew about plants, how she helped me heal my stings.

We've both worked slowly and it's already getting dark by the time Rue's segment is finished. I can't help thinking of the nightmares I'll have tonight. I watch as Peeta packs up the pages and materials, unable to take my eyes off of him. We both stand up and I step around the table toward him. Then, so quickly I don't even have time to think about what's happening, his arms are extending and I'm throwing myself into them. The side of my face presses against his chest and I feel his cheek resting against my hair. He's holding me tightly, so I don't even have to worry about supporting my weight on my legs. I _have_ to ask now.

"Will you stay tonight?" The question makes me feel irrationally vulnerable. I know he cares about me and it's not as if the two of us sharing a bed would be any new development, but I would be devastated if he said _no_.

"Yes."

"I've wanted you to for the past few days," I admit.

He laughs a little. "I wish you'd told me."

"You didn't know?"

"Of course not," he says, loosening his hold on me and pulling back. He stares into my eyes and I feel one of his hands on the side of my neck while his thumb runs along my jaw.

"Sometimes it seems like you don't want to be here. You're always rushing off after breakfast and dinner," I say.

He's clearly surprised by my words. "Is that what _you_ want? To be together more often?"

"If you do," I say, sounding more defensive than I'd meant to.

Peeta's eyes widen and then he smiles. "I didn't know what you wanted. I know I've been…" His voice lowers so that he's barely audible, and I see him swallow. "…forced on you a lot in the past and I don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with. I thought you needed more time."

So Haymitch was half right. Peeta did think I didn't want him, but wasn't deliberately holding out on telling me that he wants to be with me more. He was just trying to make things easier for me.

"I thought I would know when…_if_ you wanted me here more," he continues.

"Now you know," I say, and manage a slight smile.

It feels so simple and I wish we'd talked about this sooner. He goes home to get some things, while I make my way upstairs and get ready for bed. I slide under the covers and wait. It seems to take forever for him to join me, but once I see him, the waiting doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that he's here now. I lift the covers and he lies down next to me. We arrange ourselves effortlessly. My head finds its way onto his chest, his arms wrap around me. Everything outside of us has changed since that night on the train, the first time he climbed into my bed with me, but he feels the same. Still warm and strong. Even now, when I'm not waking up screaming, having him here is incredibly comforting.

* * *

><p>In my dream, I'm lying in a shallow grave, staring up at a sky filled with dark storm clouds. I try to sit up, but can't move at all. I'm completely paralyzed. Then <em>they<em> start to arrive. All of the people whose faces I know, who died because of me. They're senselessly crowding around the opening of my grave, pushing and struggling to get a look at me. They all have lifeless white eyes. They don't speak or make any sound right away. Then the first handful of ash is thrown at me, onto my stomach. The one who threw it, a member of the Star Squad, shrieks and the sound echoes.

One by one, and more rapidly all the time, the others continue to fill my grave. The ashes start to cover my face and I choke on them, still unable to move. The dead people keep tossing, shrieking, and staring at me with those horrifying eyes.

I wake up screaming, and it is such a relief to be able to breathe and move. My eyes fly open and land on the empty side of the bed next to me, which is illuminated by early morning light shining in through the windows. Where is Peeta? Didn't he stay last night? I roll over and bury my face in my pillow as the sobs start to wrack my body. My stomach is starting to hurt, from being tensed over and over as I cry, when I feel his hands on my back. He turns me over and then pulls me into a sitting position and up against him. I feel his lips on my forehead and his hands running over my back.

"It's all right, Katniss," Peeta says softly, "you're safe. Shh." He begins to stroke my hair. "You're all right, it's over."

I start to calm down, but the tears keep streaming. I open my eyes and lean back enough to see Peeta.

He looks nearly as sad as I feel. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. I wanted to let you sleep in. Do you want to tell me what it was?"

I shake my head and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him against me again, so that we're cheek to cheek. I run a hand up into his hair and feel that it's wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower.

We stay like this for a while: Peeta running his hands over my back and into my hair, me gripping him tightly. Eventually I realize I'm as comforted as can be, and I start to pull away. "Are you okay?" Peeta asks.

_No_. I nod, though, because I'm as okay as I'm going to get. "I'm going to take a shower," I tell him. _And hopefully wash the ashes away_.

He gives me a tentative smile, then says, "I'll be waiting for you downstairs," and leaves the room. I retrieve some clean clothes from my dresser and make my way into the bathroom.

* * *

><p>Sae's already gone by the time I reach the kitchen, and Peeta's eaten half of his meal. I stare at the food in front of me disinterestedly. I have no appetite.<p>

"Please eat something," Peeta says, reaching a hand across the table and placing it over mine.

I keep thinking of the nightmare. I've had that one before, but not in a few weeks. It always makes me feel like this. Today it helped that Peeta was there to hold on to, but it was still terrifying.

I pick up my fork and start taking small bites, not because I'm hungry or even because Peeta asked me to, but because I could never waste food. I force the it all down and then push the empty plate away from me. "You still have nightmares," I say, as more of a statement that I know he'll confirm than a question.

Peeta's eyes meet mine and he nods. Then he stands up, collects our plates and takes them to the sink. I stare down at the table in front of me while I listen to him washing the dishes and forks. When he's done, I stand up and walk into the living room, then slump down on the couch. I thought things were getting better. I'd hoped that nightmare wouldn't return. It's hard to choose just one, but I'd say that's the worst nightmare that I have.

"What do you want to do today?" Peeta asks, awkwardly taking a seat beside me on the couch.

"Nothing," I say.

"You don't want to work on the book?"

I shake my head. Seeing drawings of the people we've lost will only make my memories of the nightmare more vivid. I'll probably imagine that they have those dead, colorless eyes. I've got that fidgety feeling again. I don't want to be inside this house, but don't feel like leaving it either. "Will you come to the roof with me?"

Peeta looks hesitant for a moment. Perhaps he's worried about me being out there when I'm so obviously upset. But he must decide I'm trustworthy, or that I'll be fine as long as he can keep an eye on me, because he smiles a little and says, "Sure."

I lead the way up the stairs then step out the window. Peeta follows and we carefully walk down the slope to the level part of the roof, where we sit, both facing the direction of town. "You like it here now, then?" I ask. I meant it to be a little joke, but can't even manage a slight smile.

"As long as I'm with you," he says.

I'm not sure if he means so that he can make sure I don't fall or jump, or that he likes being anywhere if I'm there. I don't dwell on it, though.

Peeta scoots over behind me and then I feel his back press into mine, so that we can lean against each other. We stay like this in silence for a couple of minutes before I hear him make a sound resembling a laugh. "On the count of three?" he says.

Before I can stop myself, I realize I'm smiling. Just a little, but it's there. Why would I have a reaction like this to his reference to the Games? We just watched the clip yesterday, of the two of us standing back to back, counting to three and then putting the berries into our mouths.

I think for a moment and it becomes obvious why I've reacted with a smile. I'm glad that's over, and that we're not in that moment anymore. Peeta bleeding to death, both of us poised to commit suicide. I'm so relieved that he didn't die there. I quickly turn around, sit on my knees and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his shoulder. I'm so thankful that he's here. I feel his hands slide over mine and cup them.

"I know Caesar asked you in the interview, but I don't know if you were telling the truth when you answered," Peeta says slowly. "What was going through your mind when you pulled out those berries?"

I'm a bit surprised that he would bring this up at a time when I'm so obviously upset, but then I wonder if he's doing it on purpose in order to distract me from my memory of the nightmare. Whatever his motivation, I'm not prepared to answer. "I really don't know," I tell him, after a few seconds. I might as well be honest, right? And I might as well tell him everything I do know. "I couldn't let you die there."

"But we both might have died," he reminds me.

I pull away from Peeta and rest my hands in my lap. He makes no move to turn toward me so that we can look at each other while we discuss this, and I'm glad.

It seems like it happened so long ago, a lifetime away. But it's only been about two years. I want to answer him, but it's hard. I try to go back there, in my mind. Back to that arena. I remember Peeta pointing out that they had to have a victor. I remember quick, fleeting thoughts of returning to the Capitol alone, sitting through the interview alone, going home alone. Seeing my family, seeing Gale. No more Peeta.

My breath catches in my throat at the thought of this. As bleak as our life now feels, the thought of enduring all of that, alone, is somehow unbearable. "It was true," I say quietly. At first I think he didn't hear, but then he turns around to look at me. His eyes meet mine, and when I try turn away, I feel his hand under my chin, gently but insistently forcing me to look at him.

"What's true?" he asks.

Is he really going to make me repeat it? Why is he doing this?

"I couldn't…" My voice cracks and I pause to clear my throat. When I speak again, it's very softly. "I couldn't bear the thought of being without you."

His reaction is confusing. At first, he looks like he's upset and sad, but then he quickly wraps his arms around me and pulls me toward him. I gently place my hands on his back. It feels like some kind of floodgate has been opened, because I suddenly want to tell him more. I remind myself that Dr. Aurelius said that talking about my feelings with someone might help me. I'm not sure if these are the kind of feelings he meant, but it seems like the same concept would apply.

"Peeta," I say softly, but my lips are right by his ear so I know he can hear me.

"Hm?"

"In Thirteen…I felt so happy when Boggs told me they'd gotten you out of the Capitol and you were just down the hall. I was _so_ excited to see you again..." I let my voice trail off, unable to finish. _I thought you were going to kiss me and I couldn't wait._

His hold on me tightens and I feel his lips on my neck. I realize I'm smiling again. There. I've made him feel good, and he deserved to hear that. It's the truth, after all. My moments of affection for him have been so fleeting that I have no business keeping them a secret, not when hearing things like this makes him so happy. In fact, I want to tell him even more. I want to tell him how happy I felt the morning after we kissed in the Quell, and that I knew it was because of him. I want to tell him that he's the only reason I ever feel anything resembling happiness these days. That I don't know what I would do if he wasn't here.

But I guess I'm not ready to say all of that, so I just keep holding on to him silently. I said what I did in order to make him happy, but it worked out well for both of us. I can hardly believe how nice this feels for me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

* * *

><p>We get used to being together. I hunt alone, and Peeta bakes in the mornings, but other than that he's almost always at my house. We devote pages of the memory book to everyone who we miss. Whenever I wake up screaming, from nightmares about mutts or the ones we've lost, his arms are there to comfort me. They find their way around me a lot during our days together, too.<p>

This morning, something is different. At first I can't put my finger on what it is. I'm aware of Peeta's chest beneath my head, and his warm embrace, as I slowly regain consciousness. I realize that I actually feel _good_ and that's when it hits me. I'm not waking up from a nightmare or with the memory of one. I try to think. Is it possible that there were no nightmares last night? I can't remember any.

I unintentionally start to shift around and stretch a little. I haven't felt this well rested in a long time. I slowly open my eyes and blink a couple of times while they adjust to the daylight in the room. I feel Peeta's hand move from my shoulder up to the crown of my head and know he's woken now, too. I lift my head and look into his heavy-lidded blue eyes. He smiles and I lean in closer, hiding my face against his neck. His arms move to my waist and tighten when I shift so that I'm lying on top of him.

"Good morning," he says softly. I can feel his lips against my hair.

"Good morning," I whisper. I'm so glad he's here. He's helped me get a good night's sleep and now… I'd forgotten it was possible to feel this good. His warm hands are traveling up and down my back and into my hair and I don't ever want this moment to end. I'm reminded of that morning when I woke up in the Quell, with a delicious feeling of happiness, after our night of kissing on the beach. Only this is better, because I'm not planning to die and he's here with me. I want to hold on to this feeling as long as I can. I know it will fade and be replaced by the sorrow that never goes away for long, but I'm trying to be happy. I'm trying to focus only on Peeta.

"Will you always stay?" I ask quietly.

"As long as you'll have me," he says, giving my waist a squeeze. His response makes me smile, and softly press my lips to his cheek.

We stay like this until we hear Sae clattering around downstairs in the kitchen. That's when Peeta gently rolls us over and pulls away from me. He gives me a final kiss on the forehead and then walks to the door. "Wait," I say impulsively, disappointed at the sudden lack of contact with him.

He turns back and smiles. "I'm just going to take a shower, I'll see you downstairs." It must be obvious that I'm not consoled by this, because he adds, "We'll come back here tonight."

I bite my lip and realize he's right. We can hardly stay in bed all day, much as I want to. I'm afraid that if I leave this room I'll start to feel sad again, but I have to accept that. In fact, the sadness is returning already. I nod, and then he leaves. I grab some clean clothes and head to the downstairs bathroom. While I stand at the sink, brushing my teeth, I hear the water running above my head and realize that Peeta must be in the shower right now. For a second, I can't help picturing him, but I immediately feel foolish and try to banish such thoughts. It's not as if I even know what to picture, exactly. I've seen most of him, but…

I shake my head, to clear it, and then take a quick shower. It's nice, how easy washing my hair has become. I towel off, get dressed and then make my way to the kitchen, reaching it a few minutes before Peeta. Today, he sits in the chair next to mine and takes my hand. Somehow, this little gesture makes me feel good again. Not as carefree as I did when we first woke up, but not far off. When he looks at me, I return his smile. There's a nagging voice inside of me telling me that I have no reason or right to feel happy, but I'm doing my best to ignore it. I tell myself that, in this moment, nothing is wrong. My memories are what really plague me and memories aren't _real_. Not real the way Peeta is. The light in his eyes, the warmth of his hand. This is real.

At the end of breakfast I stand up, reluctantly pulling my hand away, collect our dishes and take them to the sink, where I start to wash them. Once I've placed one of the plates in the dish drainer, I realize that this is the first time I've done the dishes since we got back here. Sae did them at first, and then when Peeta started coming over for meals, he would do them, because I still couldn't be bothered to. I realize that I _should_ be the one to do them, really. Peeta's my guest, and I'm sure if my mother were here she would remind me that letting one's guests clean up is impolite.

I actually make myself smirk at the thought of this. It seems like such a trivial thing to even consider. But, I remind myself, I _can _think of things like this now. I can have a relatively normal life again. I know the nightmares will return, but I'm going to have a good day today, at least.

I feel Peeta's hands on my waist, as I'm placing the second plate in the drainer, and I turn around into his arms. After a few seconds, we make our way into the living room, hand in hand, and then I get out the box of papers. I'm interested to see all the work we've done, so I lay the pages out on the coffee table. Peeta sits on the couch, glancing at each of the papers as I set them down. Everyone's here - Prim, my father, Peeta's family, Finnick, Cinna, Madge, Rue…

I sit down and let my eyes travel over the pages. Peeta's drawings are lovely and I'm happy with the things I've written about everyone. It will be even nicer when we've bound them together.

I remember in the kitchen just now, when I was so quick to tell myself that I have no right to feel happy. But where does feeling miserable get me? Everyone featured on these papers (with the exception of my father) is dead because of me, and of course I feel incredibly guilty. I can't help it, any more than I can help feeling sad so much of the time. But I also can't deny that it is useless to feel guilty. We all wanted a better life, a better world to live in and it's here, for now at least. I may as well try to let it make me happy; that was the whole point of the war. To get rid of the suffering and misery. I make a silent promise to everyone who Peeta has drawn, a promise to live a good life so that their deaths will count for something.

"Who's next?" Peeta asks, glancing at me with a smile.

I keep looking over the pictures. "I don't know," I say. "Maybe we could do something else today."

"What do you want to do?"

He's always asking me this, but today I have a new answer for him. "Whatever you want," I say, looking over and into his eyes.

He seems to think for a moment, then asks, "Do you want to watch the tapes of the Quell?"

I'm surprised that this is what he would say, and feel a little bad about not being able to agree to it. "Oh," I say, shifting my gaze away from him, "um, I guess I'm not ready for that yet." I do want to watch them at some point, but the Games footage was a lot to take in and I need a longer break before we watch more.

"That's fine," he says. Then there's silence and it drags on until I start to feel uncomfortable. Is he always so preoccupied with wanting to make _me_ happy that he can't think of a single thing to say when asked what he wants? I try to think. We walked into town yesterday and I've already said that I don't want to watch the Quell tapes or work on the book. We both slept in later than usual, and I don't feel much like hunting at this time of day. There's one other thing to do, I suppose.

"I could watch you bake," I suggest.

Peeta smiles and takes one of my hands in his. "You won't get bored?"

I shake my head quickly. Of course I won't get bored. I never feel bored when I'm with Peeta. We talk plenty; about memories, my hunts, sometimes nothing in particular. But when we don't talk, I don't mind at all. Even if we're just sitting together silently, it's nice being with him.

"Great," he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I stack the papers up and put them away and then we walk over to Peeta's house. I sit on a stool at the kitchen counter, while he gets out the ingredients. I watch as he fills a bowl with water from the tap, after sticking his hand under the faucet and adjusting the temperature a couple of times.

"Does it matter what temperature the water is?" I ask, when he sets the bowl in front of me.

He nods, pushing the bowl toward me. "Feel."

I dab my index finger into the water and feel that it's warm, then push the bowl back toward Peeta. He quickly starts throwing things into it: flour, yeast, salt; without bothering to measure a thing. He lets it sit for a few minutes, then adds more flour and takes the dough from the bowl, setting it on the floured counter.

I expected that he would be able to throw bread together with his eyes closed, but can't help being surprised at how easy he makes it look, how precise and unwavering each of his actions are. "I guess you've done this before," I say

He smiles, kindly pretending to be amused by my attempt at a joke. "Since I could toddle."

I can't help picturing a little boy, with blond curls and big blue eyes, standing on a stool and squeezing some dough. It makes me smile.

"You can help anytime you feel like it," says Peeta.

I shift my gaze from his hands up to his face and see that he's still smiling. "I don't want to ruin it," I say.

"You won't."

I hesitate a little longer, then go to the sink and wash my hands before joining him on his side of the counter. He abruptly takes his hands off the dough ball and steps aside, making room for me. I search his face for…I don't know what. But all I see is an encouraging smile, so I reach down and softly start to squeeze at the dough. He made it look so easy but I can't help thinking I'm doing it wrong.

I feel Peeta's warm, floury hands on the backs of mine, guiding my squeezing motions and making them more firm. My confidence grows and he removes his hands. When the dough doesn't seem to be changing consistency anymore, I ask him, "Is it done?"

Peeta shrugs, still smiling. "It could use a couple more minutes, and you need the practice." I keep playing with the dough, trying to recreate what Peeta did with it. "Fun, right?" he asks.

"Sure," I say flatly. It's fun enough, and I'd meant for my reply to sound more sincere than it did. I don't want him to think I don't like being with him. I do. I _am_ having fun, just because it seems like he is.

Peeta doesn't seem bothered by my apparent lack of sincerity. He gives me a kiss on the forehead, the leans back against the counter while I keep working on the dough. He glances down at it, then at me. "For a while, I thought this would never happen," he says.

I'm startled by his words, but I'm not exactly sure what it is about them that's so disconcerting. I know he's wanted to be with me for a long time, so of course he would have pictured what a life together might be like. And it only makes sense that this scene would feature in his imagined future for us. Maybe I feel sad that he had to spend so long thinking we'd never spend time together like this: willingly, contentedly. Maybe I'm startled by what his words imply. That we're really _together_ now, in a way we've never been before.

"Me too" is all I can think of to say. Because for a while, he hated me.

He reaches out and takes the dough from me. I wash my hands at the sink and Peeta tells me that I can go the living room if I want, because we have to wait for the dough to rise now. I take a seat on the couch and he soon joins me. I can't help noticing the tapes sitting next to the television. Peeta told he that he watches them sometimes, and I wonder if he's watched the clip of us on the beach. Before I can second guess myself, I blurt out the words, "Do you remember that night on the beach, in the Quell? I mean, before…" _the capture?_

He stares down and a crease forms between his brows. "When we were sitting next to each other? I was watching the jungle and you were watching the water?"

"Right," I say. When his eyes raise to mine again, I look away and wonder why I brought this up.

"What about it?" he prompts.

"Oh," I say. I don't really know how to answer him, if he doesn't understand. "It's just…it was the last time…"

"The last time we kissed before the hijacking?"

Basically. I think I gave him one quick kiss right before Johanna and I left, but that hardly compared to those other kisses. I nod my head and press my lips together tightly.

"Katniss," he says, placing a hand under my chin.

I can feel his eyes boring into me. I take a deep breath and look into them.

Peeta smiles. "I wish I remembered it better."

"Maybe," I say, choosing my words carefully, "maybe you don't need to."

His eyes widen a little as he understands what I'm saying. I see them flicker down to my mouth and then return to mine. He starts to lean toward me, I close my eyes quickly and a moment later his lips are on mine. They're soft and gentle at first, just pressing slightly. I press back and he gets bolder. I feel one of his hands behind my neck, sliding up into my hair, and the other travels down to squeeze my waist. I place both of my hands on his shoulders and he pulls me closer, tilting his head more to the side, for better access. I feel warm and almost numb as my mouth moves with his. I'd forgotten just how nice this is. It's not exactly like those kisses in the Quell, but it's almost as good, because it's _real_ and not for show. I want this.

Peeta's the one who ends our kiss, and he proceeds to trail his lips along my cheek and jaw and then down to my neck, while I try to catch my breath. He gently draws my skin into his mouth, making me shiver just a little. He's never done _this_ before…not to me, at least. Then I feel his lips on mine again, gently pressing with a closed mouth. He pulls back to look at me for just a second, then leans in once more, this time just to hug me. I rest my head on his shoulder.

When he says he needs to go put the bread in the oven, I release him. While he's in the kitchen I try not to over-think what just happened, but of course can't think of anything else. I knew what I was doing when I brought up what happened in the Quell, and what was it I said, that maybe he didn't need to remember it? I don't know what came over me. It was an impulse.

I can't deny that we've been getting closer lately, but somehow I haven't thought of kissing him. I've told myself that we hug at night because of the nightmares, and then it seemed pointless to make the bedroom our only hugging zone. Why not do the same thing during the day? Why not hold his hand, and reciprocate whenever he puts his arms around me?

Still, kissing hadn't occurred to me. But just now, I really wanted to. I correctly assumed that he needed my encouragement before making such a bold move, and I gave it willingly. I lift a hand and brush my fingertips across my lips. It was nice, very nice. Are we going to kiss again? Is that going to become one of the things we do regularly? Is it a step toward something else?

I bite my lip and begin to feel foolish for thinking like this. Why should I get to be happy when so many people are dead because of me? I don't deserve to be happy, and there are much more important things to think of than kissing Peeta. I need to leave. I need to go home, and to my roof.

No, wait…what would Peeta think if he came back and I was gone? I can't do that to him. He looked so happy before he left the room. I can't make him miserable again. I've done that enough in the past.

It's not until I hear his voice asking, "Are you all right?" that I realize I'm hunched forward, with my face in my hands. I slowly sit up straight and let my hands slide down to my lap. Peeta sits beside me on the couch and I turn toward him. He looks worried and I can't stand it. I reach out and take his hand, to let him know that the anxiety I'm feeling isn't anything personal.

"I just…" I can't think of a way to explain it to him.

"It's okay," he says, seeming to sense what I'm feeling. "It's okay…to try to move on." He reaches out and tucks some of my hair behind my ear. "They would want us to be happy," he tells me. I know he's right, and remind myself of the promise I made to those pictures. Peeta slowly reaches his arms out for me and draws me toward him, giving me plenty of time to pull away, but I don't. "I love you," he says softly. But I know what he really means. He means: _Please don't do this; please don't ruin this nice day we're having by thinking too much_.

I decide that I won't ruin it, no matter what. But I still want to get out of here. "Can we sit outside?" I ask. I couldn't help noticing on our walk over here that the weather is lovely today. Sunny but not too bright, and breezy.

"Sure," Peeta says, pulling back and smiling at me tentatively. He takes my hand and leads the way to his back porch. We sit on the swing facing his grassy yard and the trees beyond. His arm is around me and I'm leaning against him. I'm reminded of our day on the roof of the Training Center, before the Quell.

"Do you want to freeze this moment and live in it forever?" I ask, glancing over at Peeta. I expect him to say yes. We just kissed, he has bread baking, it's nice day. What more could either of us hope for at this point?

He smiles, seemingly relieved that I've calmed down, and I feel his hand gently squeeze my shoulder. "I don't need to. We have plenty of time now."

I realize he's right. Every moment can be like this, if we want it to. We don't need to make wishes in order to keep feeling this way, we just have to let it happen. _I_ have to let it happen.

I lean away from Peeta just a little, and twist my upper body so I'm facing him. I reach up and cup his face in my hands. He smiles and I love the way his eyes soften, and knowing that he's happy because he's here with me. I let my hands slide down to his shoulders and this time I'm the one who leans in for a kiss.

When we pull away, he smiles and seems a bit shy as he looks away from me. "What?" I ask.

"Well, I was wondering if you wanted to sing to me."

I remind myself that I did ask him what he wanted to do today; I guess being sung to is one of those things. Before I can rationally try to think of what to sing, a single line, from the old mountain air that I sang to Rue, pops into my head: _Here is the place where I love you._ Where did that come from?

"Oh," I say, stalling.

Peeta looks into my eyes again and smiles. "You don't have to," he says quickly.

"Maybe some time," I say, leaning my head against him again. I realize that my face feels warm and hope that if it has reddened visibly, he didn't notice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

* * *

><p>The dough has become three loaves of bread. "One for Haymitch," Peeta tells me as he gets out a bag to put them in. He starts wrapping up the bread while I get a tall glass out of the nearby cupboard and then fill it with water from the refrigerator. I drink too fast and the cold water hurts all the way down. But at least it's a distraction from my overactive mind. As the day wears on, I can't help thinking of the fact that I'll have to sleep again tonight and there isn't a doubt in my mind that the nightmares will return.<p>

I shake my head a little and put my glass in the sink. "Ready?" I ask Peeta. He nods, shifting the bag of bread to one arm and reaching out for me with the other. I'm not sure if he expects me to step closer, so that it can wrap around me, or if I'm just supposed to take his hand. I elect the latter.

We walk to Haymitch's house and I hit the front door hard with the heel of my hand. As usual, there's no answer. I twist the knob and push, then step inside can't help wincing. How can he live like this? I glance over at Peeta, but he just gives a little shrug and then crosses the room to the kitchen. I follow.

Haymitch sits slumped in a chair, bottle in hand. "Heard of knocking?" he asks.

"I pounded," I say.

Haymitch doesn't seem to register my response. "I mean, what if I'd been…unclothed?"

"In the kitchen?" I ask, tilting my head with skepticism.

"That's why I made sure to come in here before you," Peeta says, turning to me with a smile. I don't even want to ask if they have a reason for talking like this. I choose to think it's a joke. "We brought bread," Peeta says, getting out a plate and knife. He cuts off a heel and hands it to Haymitch, who takes a bite. "Katniss helped make it this time," Peeta says with a smile, while he and I each take a seat at the table.

Haymitch chews and swallows the bread. "It's terrible," he says flatly.

One side of my mouth raises in a little smirk.

"Hey, I supervised," Peeta says, still smiling.

"What have you been up to lately?" Haymitch asks. I wonder if he's still supposed to be keeping tabs on us, or at least on me.

"Nothing," I say quickly. I can't help it, our day to day life seems so uneventful compared to what we've had to live through in the past, that it feels like we _have_ been doing nothing. I don't even think about how my response will sound to Peeta, until I see his smile fade.

He looks away from me and over at Haymitch. "You remember Katniss' family's plant book?"

"Nope," Haymitch says, taking a swig from his bottle. I'm not sure if he's ever seen the plant book, and wonder why Peeta would mention it so casually. Maybe Peeta told him about it at some point, when we were working on it before the Quell.

"Well, we've been making something like that. I've drawn pictures of our families and Finnick and Cinna, and the others who are gone," Peeta explains, "and Katniss writes things about them."

"That sounds nice," Haymitch says, staring down at his bottle and picking at the label.

My eyebrows raise at his seemingly sincere words. I suppose the book must be nice, if even Haymitch is willing to admit it. "You should help." I hear the words, but it's not until I see both Peeta and Haymitch look at me that I realize I'm the one who's spoken them. "I mean, if there's anyone we don't have yet, who you think should be remembered…" I let my voice trail off, wondering what exactly I mean. I realize I don't know anything about Haymitch's family. I don't even know how they died. But I feel like he should contribute something, if he wants to.

Haymitch looks back down at his bottle and appears to be lost in thought. Then his gaze raises to mine again and he says, "I can think of forty-six people."

Of course. The tributes he mentored before Peeta and me. A couple might have relatives left to mourn them, but most have surely been forgotten by everyone but Haymitch. All those dead children, they deserve to be remembered too. I try to think, and am able to picture some faces from the years before Peeta and I were the tributes. I nod my head. "Whatever you can remember about them."

He presses his lips together for a moment, then says, "I'll think about it."

Peeta makes sure Haymitch eats some more bread and then we stand up to leave. "Come over some time," I say with a shrug of one shoulder. "I mean, in the next couple of days."

Haymitch nods, glancing up at me for a second. I look over at Peeta, who's smiling and reaching his hand out toward me. I take it and we leave the house together.

"That was a good idea," Peeta says, as we walk down the steps of Haymitch's porch, "asking him to help."

"I just thought -" I say quickly, but stop myself. Why do I sound so defensive? Peeta told me it was a _good_ idea, but I'm responding as if he's criticized me. "Thanks," I mumble, and he gives my hand a squeeze.

While we walk the short distance to my house, I think of when we were in the elevator of the Training Center, before the Quell. Peeta was laughing over the way Finnick, Johanna and Chaff were teasing me because of my purity. That day I became defensive to the point of anger. And that lead to my refusing to let him into my room and wasting some nights when we could have been together before he was taken away from me.

What was it that we said to each other? _"You're so… pure."_

"_I am not!"_

"_I mean, for the Capitol, you're pure. For me, you're perfect."_

I think that's how it went, and when he apologized later on, I remember Peeta telling me that he thought I would laugh with him about the whole thing. Why didn't I? Looking back on it, it seems so trivial. Why did I take myself so seriously? I completely ignored the most important thing Peeta said that day: _"For me, you're perfect."_

When we reach the top of my porch, I glance over at him and can't help feeling embarrassed that I was _ever_ angry at him. All he's ever done is love me, except when he was hijacked, but that wasn't even his fault.

I see his lighthearted expression morph into one of concern. "Something wrong?" he asks.

I realize that I'm frowning so I force myself to smile a little, and shake my head, before I turn toward the door. I'm twisting the knob when I hear Peeta say, from beside me, "You have mail."

I glance over and see that his hand is in my mailbox. When he pulls it out, he's holding an oversized white envelope. I take in the sight of it and say, "From my mother?" because she's the only one I can think of who might send me a letter. Peeta looks down at it and smiles, then shakes his head. When I reach my hand out he gives me the envelope. My eyebrows raise as I stare down at the return address. "Annie," I say.

As I settle in on the couch in the living room, Peeta goes into the kitchen. I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and tear it open, then pull out a few sheets of paper and unfold them. A photograph falls into my lap and pick it up, examining it closely

Peeta returns from the kitchen and sets some sliced bread and two glasses of water on the coffee table, then sits down beside me. I glance at the back of the photograph and see that the baby has been named after his father, Finnick. Also written are his date of birth and when this photo was taken. I'm not sure what the date is today, but I think he must be about a month old now. I turn the photo toward Peeta, and he reaches out and takes it from me.

"Wow," he says, staring at it with wide eyes. "Did you know?"

I shake my head and reach for my glass of water, taking a long drink before saying softly, "I wonder if Finnick knew."

I glace over at Peeta again and see that he's smiling at the picture. His eyes flicker up to mine for a second and he says, "I don't know, I guess it depends." I try to do the math in my head, and conclude that Annie probably wouldn't have known, or been able to tell Finnick, before Squad 451 left Thirteen. I'm not sure if that makes the whole thing more sad, or if it's for the best. "He looks just like Finnick," says Peeta.

I feel myself smirking a little. "I've never understood it when people say babies look _just like_ their parents. Kids, maybe, but…" I lean over to see the picture again. "I don't think that looks like Finnick."

Peeta grins, glancing up at me. "You know what I mean," he says, "he has his coloring, he looks like Finnick _in baby form_."

"I guess," I allow, watching Peeta continue to examine the photo.

"He would have been so happy," he muses.

"Yeah," I say awkwardly.

"We should put this in the book," Peeta says, setting the photo on the coffee table.

I nod and then look over the sheets of paper. "There's a letter from Johanna and one from Annie." I decide to read Johanna's first, because it's shorter. "Dear brainless," I say.

Peeta laughs. "She didn't really write that."

"No," I confirm, smiling at him just a little. My eyes return to the page and travel over it. Gale's name jumps out at me, near the bottom of the page, so I decide to paraphrase the letter for Peeta, rather than read it to him. "She says hello to you," I say, "and hopes we're both doing well." I can't help thinking it's funny, the polite things that everyone is expected to put in letters. I can't picture Johanna saying something like that in person. "She's been traveling around a lot and says it's nice seeing how all the Districts are adjusting to the new non-tyrannical system of rule…she went to Two recently."

It's here that I stop narrating and read a bit silently to myself, _Gale insisted that I find a way to tell you this. I didn't want to, but he made me promise. If it makes you angry, blame him, not me. He recently met one of the scientists who developed the hijacking process that was used on Peeta. The man told Gale that they did some experiments with it and had every reason to believe that the process was irreversible. He said that, as far as they could tell, recovery is impossible._

I can't resist glancing up at Peeta, who's looking at the picture of Annie's baby again. The words in the letter sink in, but they don't mean anything to me. Impossible? Peeta does the impossible all the time. He loves unconditionally, and forgives without hesitation, without doubt. When he was just a child, he found a way to save my life, and Prim's. He survived the Hunger Games without letting the Gamemakers turn him into some monster he's not. He can overcome the hijacking. I know he already has. I know he would never hurt me again.

Either the man who Gale spoke with was mistaken, or he only meant that _complete_ recovery is unlikely to happen. The flashbacks still occur, and those seem to be a result of the hijacking, but they haven't caused him to turn against me again. Nothing could.

I look back down at the letter and read the last paragraph, then tell Peeta about it. "She says she and Annie got permission to visit here, if we want to see them. She's going to be at Annie's for a couple of weeks, so I can write to them both there."

Peeta nods. "I'd like to see them, and the baby."

"Me too. I'll write to them soon." I set Johanna's letter aside and begin to read Annie's; again I paraphrase it for Peeta. "She says that she hopes we're doing well, and that she and the baby are having fun getting to know each other," I say. "And she says thanks for being Finnick's allies during Quell and taking him to the water, so that…so that she could have a little more time with him." I pause and swallow hard, trying not to remember the last glimpse I caught of Finnick. Peeta and I may have helped him in the Quell, but I failed him later on. Fleetingly, I wish I'd thought of Finnick more and tried to protect him. After he saved Peeta during the Quell, I realized that I would never stop owing him, for the rest of my life. I glance up at Peeta and will myself not to cry. If Finnick hadn't known what to do…

I give my head a little shake, in an attempt to clear it. I remind myself that there was nothing I could do for him. I _would_ have helped Finnick if I could. I look back down at the letter. "And she says thanks to you for decorating their wedding cake, and me for supplying her dress. We helped make the best day of her life even more special."

I notice that Annie has an intricate, elegant script, and her letter is more wordy than Johanna's. I suppose, being from one of the wealthier districts, Annie is probably more well-educated than the rest of us. I find myself wondering how she came to be in the Games. The Career districts often have volunteers, but I can't believe Annie would have willingly stepped forward to participate. I conclude that there must not have been anyone who wanted to volunteer that year. If memory serves, District Four never seemed to be quite as enthusiastic about the Games as One and Two usually were.

My eyes travel over the remainder of the letter and I decide not to share the rest of it with Peeta. It ends with, _My one consolation is my lack of regrets. I know that I made the most of the time I had with Finnick. I will love and miss him for the rest of my life, but I will always have my memories of how happy we made each other, and I have our son. All we can do now is focus on what remains, and remember that we haven't lost everything._

I'm not sure if the 'we' Annie's referring to is she and the baby or she and I. It doesn't matter, I guess. I know she's right. It feels strange to think that, just because things could be worse, we should feel fortunate. But in a way, it helps. What if Peeta hadn't recovered from the hijacking? What if he'd died in the Capitol when the bombs went off? I do know that I haven't lost _everything_. I know that I should try to focus on what I have. Of course, I miss Prim every day, but the pain is fading. I don't cry as often as I used to.

"That's it?" Peeta asks.

"More or less," I say with a shrug, folding up the letter and sliding it back into the envelope, along with Johanna's. Peeta nods. He either believes me or knows that if I'm keeping something from him, I have every right to. The letters _were_ addressed to me, after all.

When we get into my bed that night, I don't want to go to sleep. I lie on my side, facing Peeta. He glances over at me and, sensing that I have no intention of scooting toward him, turns onto his side so we're facing each other. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I nod, and he tentatively reaches out, draping his arm over my waist, and gives me a small smile. "I wish I could have done something for Finnick," I say.

"So do I," Peeta says, then clarifies, "I mean, I wish _I_ could have done something. After what he did for me." I remember when we were in Thirteen, when Peeta was still hijacked and he said that he didn't owe Finnick anything, because Finnick only saved him because of me and the rebellion. It's nice to hear that his attitude has changed.

"You weren't in any condition to be helping anyone else," I remind him. Peeta doesn't have anything to say to this. I suppose he agrees. After a period of silence, I speak again. "We spent time together in Thirteen. Me and Finnick. I went hunting with him and we watched television together." _We watched _you_ together_…

Peeta's eyes are trained on me, waiting to hear more.

"He was the only person who understood how it felt…" I explain, "how _I_ felt." I smile a little, remembering Finnick in that ridiculous golden net costume, and the way he behaved the first time I spoke to him. "I never would have thought he and I would have anything in common, but we did. Because of you and Annie."

When I see Peeta smile, I wonder if what I've just said implies that I cared about him in the same way that Finnick loved Annie. But I didn't, I don't think. I remember seeing Finnick and Annie's reunion in Thirteen and thinking of how no one could doubt their love, while I was filled with doubts and confusion over my own feelings. But I also remember how excited I felt when I was told that I was about to see Peeta, that he was alive and right down the hall. I felt lightheaded and giddy and now I can't help thinking that maybe, if he hadn't been hijacked, the same thing could have happened between us. We might have been happy beyond comprehension, we might have kissed and hugged and refused to let go of each other.

I start to feel angry that Snow denied me of that, but then I remember that I didn't even deserve a happy reunion like Finnick and Annie's. I had plenty of chances to be happy with Peeta before the Quell, but I didn't want to. The prospect of losing him was the only thing that ever seemed to make me realize how important he was to me.

_It doesn't help to feel upset over this_, I remind myself, _it's over, it's all over_.

"I didn't have any nightmares last night," I blurt out, in hopes of distracting myself.

I'm not sure if the expression Peeta reacts with is one of understanding or disappointment. Maybe a little of both. What I've just told him serves to explain the way I acted today, and I bet he correctly assumes that tomorrow will be different. "And you want to quit while you're ahead? Quit sleeping?"

I smile just a little. "Something like that."

Peeta's hand slides up and runs through my hair. "I know they're bad," he says, "but that's what I'm here for, right?" He's smiling, but I don't like what he's implying.

I avert my eyes from his and stare down at the bed in between us. "Not _just_ that," I say, slowly leaning up on my elbow.

"I know," Peeta says, "I just meant -"

But I interrupt him by pressing my lips to his, just briefly, before I lie my head back down on my pillow. He's smiling again, and now I scoot closer to him, pressing my face into his chest and reciprocating when he encircles me with his arms. "What do you have nightmares about?" I ask.

He hesitates, and it seems like he doesn't want to answer. "I still have ones about losing you."

I assume he has other ones, too, and just doesn't want to talk about them. I don't blame him. There are some nightmares I wouldn't want to tell anyone about. "And you're okay when you wake up and I'm here?"

"Right," he says, pressing his lips against my forehead. I feel glad that, since he never wakes me up to comfort him, just being here helps him a little. Soon enough, Peeta shifts onto his back and we assume our usual sleeping position. I eventually start to feel tired and am able to drift off.

* * *

><p>I wake up with a scream, this time from a nightmare about the mutts that killed Finnick. They were chasing me and hissing my name. While I ran, I watched people rushing past me in the opposite direction, toward the mutts. But I was powerless to stop them, I couldn't even stop running. I heard their screams behind me as the mutts devoured them, and was unable to refrain from looking over my shoulder to see the mangled bodies that were left in my wake.<p>

I jolt away from Peeta and onto my back, hiding my face in my hands and struggling to breathe. It only takes him a moment to wake up enough to comfort me. One of his arms slides behind my neck and the other gently smoothes my hair back. "It's all right, Katniss," he says softly. "You're safe. Shh," I feel his lips on the backs of my hands, which still cover my face. "You're all right, it's over," he continues.

I slowly lower my hands and, still crying, wind them around his neck to pull him closer. I whisper his name.

"I'm here," he says, leaning over me and tightening his hold on me.

I slide my hands down to clutch at the back of his shirt, frantically pulling it toward me. We're as close as we can get, but it isn't enough. I still feel scared, I still find it hard to believe he's really here. For some reason, he was one of the ones in my dream, who ran past me and was killed by the mutts. Peeta continues to murmur consoling words, but it's not helping enough. Impulsively, I decide that I need to feel something else so that I won't feel scared. I firmly draw his face toward mine until our lips meet. For a second, he's too surprised to respond, but then I feel his mouth pushing against mine gently, as if he's afraid of hurting me. I don't want him to be careful, I want him to distract me. I try to make up for his gentleness, and convince him that it's not appreciated, by pressing my lips against his so hard that my teeth dig into them and it starts to hurt.

I think I'm hurting Peeta too, because he pulls away and, even in the dark, I can see confusion on his face. "Katniss," he says, continuing to stroke my hair.

I know that Peeta is the last person I should ever feel embarrassed around, but somehow I do. "I'm sorry," I say, turning my face away from him.

He kisses my cheek and then I feel his lips brush against my skin as he says, "You don't have to be sorry, I just don't think..." he lets his voice trail off, but I know what he was going to say. He doesn't think that's the right way to make me feel better, and he may be right. Also, I bet he doesn't want to be a distraction that I frantically clutch at while I'm obviously upset. When we kiss, he probably wants it to be for another reason. Not to get food, not to appease anyone, not to distract me.

He gently presses his hand against my cheek until I'm facing him again. I can feel myself recovering now. My heart isn't racing, my breathing is normal. I'm surprised when Peeta leans down and presses his lips into mine. This time it's nice, and somehow even more comforting than before. I try to remember this; that it's all right to kiss him in order to gain comfort and as a distraction, but only after I've calmed down a bit.

I'm still tired, and he must be too, because we're both okay with stopping after a minute or so. He gives me a sweet smile and then leans away from me and onto his back. I turn onto my side and his arms wrap around me again. I'm still upset over the nightmare, and keep thinking about those mutts, but I also remember Annie's letter. At least I haven't lost _everything_. Having Peeta here helps a lot.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Hunger Games._

* * *

><p>I'm a bit surprised when Haymitch comes over the next afternoon. I expected him to put it off longer, but I suppose he doesn't have much else to do. Peeta gets out the box and sits on the floor, like we usually do when we work on the book. He gestures for Haymitch to have a seat across from him. "I don't know if I'll be able to get up," Haymitch says.<p>

Peeta smiles. "I'll help you."

Haymitch seems to hesitate a bit more, then sits down on the floor. I can't help rolling my eyes and thinking he's exaggerating, and claiming to be in worse shape than he really is. He's only around my mother's age. Though I suppose she's taken better care of herself over the years than Haymitch has.

I listen as Haymitch describes one of the more recent tributes for Peeta to draw. We've decided to devote a few pages to the tributes collectively. Smaller pictures, less details. Because Peeta either hasn't seen or doesn't remember most of them, his drawings can't be too elaborate, and Haymitch is not very likely to recall many facts about those who died long ago.

I go into the kitchen and get some bread and butter to eat while we work. After he's drawn several little pictures, Peeta takes a break from drawing to eat, and I sit down at the table, pen in hand, while Haymitch tells me what to write about the tributes. There are a lot of pauses, while he rubs his forehead and tries to remember which tribute had a big family, and which one had a skill, which ultimately proved insignificant. I'm sure it will get more difficult, the farther back we go. Perhaps for some tributes, all we'll have is a name on the page. But that's something, at least.

Once I've written some details about everyone who Peeta has drawn so far, Haymitch announces that it's break time. He leans forward, rubbing his hands over his eyes and then reaches out blindly, running his hand over the empty plate of breadcrumbs.

"Sorry," Peeta says with a grin, when Haymitch looks up at him. "I'll get some more." He stands up, taking the plate with him into the kitchen.

"I need a drink," Haymitch says, rubbing his forehead again.

"You didn't have one before you came over?" I ask.

"No," he snaps. "I'm out. Waiting on the next train."

I nod in acknowledgement of his explanation, then look down at the page of tributes and can't help thinking that I could have so easily been just like them. Gone and forgotten, just a face and name. Preserved on the tapes of the Games, and in the memories of those who knew me, but that would be all.

But I had help. My father taught me to shoot, which lead to my high score with the Gamemakers, and sponsors. He also taught me, with the plant book, how to survive on my own. Cinna's synthetic fire made a lot of people notice me, and Peeta made me memorable too, in his interview. He also teamed up with the Careers and fought Cato, all for me.

And Haymitch helped. At first, it was terrifying to think of how much I would need his help while in the arena. But he didn't let me down, me or Peeta.

"Is he lost?" Haymitch asks, looking up at me again.

_Oh no_. He's right, Peeta's been gone too long. I stand up, without a word, and rush into the kitchen. Peeta's there, clutching the back of a chair, with his head bowed. For a moment, I wonder if there's something about my kitchen that brings this out in him, but quickly discount the possibility. I've seen him have two more flashbacks since that first one. One of them was in his living room, the other was while we were out on the roof. That was scary. He didn't have anything to hold on to, so he just knotted his hands in his hair and curled up into a ball. All I could do at the time was scoot over between him and the edge, with the hope that I would be able to prevent him from falling if he started to thrash around or anything. Luckily, he didn't.

It's so hard watching this happen to him, but I know I can't do anything yet. I just have to wait it out. I can see when his breathing returns to normal, and then his face tilts up and toward me. I take a few quick steps, to reach his side, and extend my arms. Almost instantly, he's holding me tightly and leaning into me enough to rest his head on my shoulder while I rub his back in what I hope is a consoling way. I'm surprised when Peeta pulls away slightly, after only a few seconds of hugging. He slowly starts to lean his face toward mine and whispers, "Can I?"

I nod my head and then he's firmly pressing his mouth into mine. I run my fingers through his hair and clutch at the back of his shirt with my other hand, returning his kiss with equal ardor. I think of how much he helps me at night when I wake up screaming. I want to do everything I can for him, and apparently this is when he needs me the most. It seems like he's not being as careful with me as he usually is and I'm surprised by how good it feels. I almost feel like…

The sound of footfalls nearby causes us to pull away. We both look over at him, leaning his hand against the doorframe. Haymitch's eyes are wide with surprise. "Oh, sorry," he says with a chuckle, before he turns and walks away.

I feel myself blushing as I try to catch my breath. I don't know why I'm embarrassed. The whole country has seen us kiss plenty of times, but I suppose it feels different when the kiss is real and not _meant_ to be seen. I glance over at Peeta and see that he seems to find this as amusing as Haymitch did. I'm glad he's recovered from the flashback, but something else is bothering me. "You don't ever have to ask permission to…" _kiss me_.

Peeta smiles and wraps his arms around me. "I just didn't want to scare you," he says.

"You don't. I mean, I would never be afraid you," I tell him, reaching up to rest my hand on his cheek and run my thumb over it. He looks so relieved that I feel bad for not bringing this up sooner. Did he think I was still afraid of him on some level? Have my actions given him a reason to? "Does that help with the flashbacks? If we kiss?"

Peeta's smile grows a little and he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine. "Being close to you always makes me feel better," he says.

I'm glad, and I resolve to let him kiss me all he wants. It's the least I can do, after I failed him in the Quell. Everything that happened is my fault…and I like kissing him, anyway.

After a few moments of silence he says, "I'm all right," and we release each other.

I return to the living room and sit down on the couch. By the time Peeta arrives with more bread, and Haymitch raises his head from his hands again, I've mostly convinced myself that there's no reason to feel embarrassed. Why should I?

* * *

><p>Haymitch leaves after one more page, citing a headache and the need to lie down in a dark room. I put the papers away, catching sight of the one we've fastened the photo of Finnick and Annie's son onto. I remember Annie's letter, and how she thanked Peeta and me for being Finnick's allies. It bothers me to think of how many times I considered killing him during the Quell. When we first arrived at the Cornucopia, when we were talking about the bloodbath, when I thought he was trying to make sure Peeta was dead, but was actually trying to resuscitate him. It's now that I begin to feel a need to revisit those events. "I'm ready to watch the Quell footage, if you want to," I say to Peeta once the papers are put away.<p>

"You're sure?" he asks, when I sit down beside him.

"Yes, I want to see it again."

He smiles and takes my hand, then leads the way to his house and into his living room. I take a pillow off the couch and put it in front of the television, so that I can lean my arms on it and lie on the floor. After he's put the tape in, Peeta turns toward me and chuckles. "You know there's a couch," he says, glancing at it.

I shrug. "Me and Prim used to like lying on the floor when we watched the Games at our old house." Because it was easy to put our faces down into the pillows in front of us and hide from the worst of it.

Peeta gets a pillow for himself and then stretches out beside me. We see my interview and watch as I twirl and my dress changes. Of course I think of Cinna. How he turned me into a mockingjay and paid for it.

Then comes Peeta's interview. I can well remember his interview before the 74th Hunger Games, and notice that there's some minute difference in him. I think maybe it's because he lost his leg and is still traumatized from the Games, but then recall that he seemed happier in the post-Games interview than he does here. I mean, he's still himself, still confident and kind and smiling. If I didn't know him so well, I probably wouldn't think he was different at all.

A sinking feeling materializes as the realization of what changed in him dawns on me. It must have been _me_. Of course he's a little different here. This was after that conversation we had on the way back to Twelve, post-Games. This was after I broke his heart.

I feel like I could cry. What's happened to me? I never used to think about his feelings that much, but lately…I don't know. The thought of him being sad or hurt over anything is painful. It reminds me of how I felt when I was watching Prim starve. My distress over Peeta being unhappy is nowhere near as extreme as that was, but it's a similar kind of feeling. The same concept, I suppose. When you care about someone, it's awful to see them hurt in any way.

"…_if it weren't for the baby,"_ Peeta, on the television, says.

I look over at him and he looks back with a smile. "Sorry about that," he says.

"Everyone who mattered knew it wasn't true," I say with a little shrug. Peeta's smile starts to fade and I worry that he thinks I mean Gale. That I didn't want Gale thinking I was pregnant with Peeta's child, and there's no way that he would have, because of what was between _us_. "My mother and Prim, I mean," I say quickly.

He nods and then looks back at the television.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?" He turns to face me again.

It's hard, talking like this, but I feel compelled. I remind myself that it makes him happy when I tell him things like this, and I want him to be happy, so I force the words out. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come back here." _You've changed everything, made it better_.

Peeta reaches out and takes my hand. "You know I feel the same way," he says, smiling just a little. When I turn onto my side and hold my arm out toward him, he quickly takes the hint. Still smiling, Peeta leans in and we shift so that I'm on my back and he's leaning over me. I feel his lips on my neck and his hand squeezing my waist.

How could I have gone so long without this? I know I always had more important things going on, but now I can't believe how long I spent pushing him away. It made sense at the time. At the time, it felt like I had no choice.

He moves his lips to mine and we miss the beginning of the Quell. I'm only vaguely aware of Finnick's and our voices in the background. I hear myself sobbing when Peeta hits the forcefield and am glad I don't have to see it, too. It would be too painful to have to see Peeta lifeless again.

I feel both of his hands slide up, so that they're cradling my head gently while his warm, soft lips move with mine. I start to flex against him a little, the middle part of my back leaving the floor in an attempt to get closer. But my mouth is starting to get tired, and his must be too, because he pulls back to look at me with wide eyes. I smile a little, because he looks happy now. He leans toward me again, this time just for a tight hug. "I had to come back," he says softly, "you're my whole life."

I think of the words he said to me before we started kissing, when I told him I was glad he was here, and decide that they're the right ones for me now. I swallow hard and when I whisper, I'm barely audible, but that's the only way I can get this out. "I feel the same way." It's true. If I didn't have him, I would have nothing. No one.

He kisses me again, briefly, and then we both turn back toward the television to watch some more. After a while, we see him give me the locket. "_No one really needs me,"_ he says, on the television.

"_I do,"_ I tell him, _"I need you."_ And then we kiss on the screen and I can't help thinking of that feeling he gave me. We've kissed about a thousand times, but the feeling was only there twice. In the cave and on the beach. Is it only when we're in a dangerous situation that I'm able, or forced, to let go enough to feel that way? Is that why it hasn't happened since then?

No…I remember when we kissed after his flashback today. I was just starting to think the feeling had returned when we were interrupted. I suppose it will return at some point, but when? I give my head a little shake, in hopes of clearing it. Why am I even thinking about this so much?

Peeta, who's still lying beside me, turns to face me again and he's smiling. "It looked like you meant that."

"I did," I assure him. That was the moment when I admitted to myself that I would be damaged beyond repair if Peeta died in the Quell. Just like in the Games, I couldn't bear the thought of going home without him. "I do," I add. What's the point in denying it?

We turn back toward the television and I begin to feel surprised at how long we've been kissing on the screen; it looks as if I managed to completely disregard where we were and the fact that we were being filmed. Seeing it again makes me remember details I'd forgotten…Peeta lifting me into his lap, the way I was pulling, almost clawing at his back with one hand while the other knotted in his hair.

Later on, when we see me tell him that I think it's time to break the alliance and Peeta says we should wait, he looks over at me again. "I'm sorry," he says, and I wonder if he's going to cry. "You were right."

"No, Peeta," I say, reaching over to touch his face. "I mean, it was a mistake for us to be separated, but we had to stay with Beetee. Otherwise I wouldn't have been around to shoot the arrow. We wouldn't have escaped."

I try not to think about how that would have been better for so many people. My shooting that arrow lead to the destruction of Twelve. _But things are better now_. It's unspeakably tragic, but so were the Games, and those are gone. We had to go along with Beetee's plan.

Peeta looks somewhat consoled, and turns back to watch some more. It's frustrating to see Johanna and I go off with the wire. I realize I'm gritting my teeth and have to tell myself to stop. _Peeta's okay_, I remind myself, _he's fine now. He's safe_.

I watch as I shoot my arrow into the force field, destroying the arena, and then fall the ground. The hovercrafts arrive, and then the picture cuts out and is replaced by a white snow storm of static. Peeta stands up and takes the tape out, then turns off the television. When he asks, "Are you okay?" I realize that I'm still staring blankly at the dark screen

My eyes dart over to meet Peeta's and he smiles tentatively. I take a deep breath then say, "I'm fine." And I think I mean it. I'm glad we watched the tapes. Just like when we watched the Games footage weeks ago, I feel like it helped me get used to the memories and maybe it will be easier to accept them now. Now that I've relived those events, with the knowledge that we've both survived, relatively intact.

I sit up, glance out the window and see that the sun is low in the sky.

"We might as well go home," Peeta says, following my gaze. Then his eyes flicker over to me and he corrects himself. "I mean, back to your house -"

He looks a little nervous, and I wonder if he thinks I'm going to get upset over his accidental implication that he lives at my house with me. It was strange to hear him say it, but I'm not mad. I quickly interrupt him by saying, "Sure," in what I hope is a reassuring tone of voice.

"I'll just grab some clothes," Peeta says, turning and heading for the stairs. I stand up and put the pillows back on the couch, then sit down. I can't help thinking about his slip of the tongue. Maybe he should just move in. He stays every night, anyway. He still bakes here and has shown me some paintings he's done during the mornings when I'm out hunting, but beyond that he spends almost all of his time at my house.

For some reason, I feel a little afraid at the prospect of living together officially. I'm not sure why, but I don't feel ready. The two of us sharing a bed feels normal by now, but something about sharing a house…it means a lot more. It's almost like…being married, or something. Still, I can't help thinking that he probably will move in with me eventually. In fact, all sorts of things I never planned on will probably happen between us eventually.

I try not to overreact to these realizations. _It's only Peeta_, I remind myself, _he'll let me decide what happens between us, and when it happens_.

It feels strange to think like this. I never used to have the time or inclination, but now I can't believe how certain I feel that I want something more than friendship from him. We're already more than friends. Friends don't kiss the way we do.

When Peeta returns, bag of clothes in hand, I find it hard to look into his eyes. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice. He just heads straight for the door and opens it. I walk out onto the porch first and see a large box leaning against the side of the house. It's tall and fairly wide from side to side, but shallow in depth. I think it's the right size and shape for a large picture or something like that. I remember seeing a big, oversized sketchbook at Peeta's house one time, and wonder if this is a new one that he's ordered. He pulls the door shut behind him and then sees the box for himself.

"Is it a sketchbook or something?" I ask.

Peeta's eyes widen a little and I see him swallow, before he seems to forcibly compose himself and give me a slight smile. He steps toward the box and glances at label. I read it too, and see that the box is from District One. I assume if it were a sketchbook, it would come from Seven, or maybe from Dr. Aurelius in the Capitol, like the papers for the memory book came for me.

"What is it?" I ask.

Peeta glances at me and says, "I wasn't sure when I was going to give it to you." He smiles a little awkwardly. "But now that you've seen it…"

"You bought something for me?"

"Sort of," he says. "Um, let's take it back to your house and open it."

I nod my head, a little confused by his vagueness. I take the bag of clothes from Peeta so that he can more easily carry the box. When we reach my house, I'm the one to open the door and then close it behind Peeta, who heads straight up the stairs. I follow and am confused when I reach my bedroom and he's not there. Where did he go?

I set down the bag of his clothes and walk down the hall, then see him in one of the spare bedrooms, the one that used to belong to Prim. He's tearing open the box quickly but carefully and eventually a frame is exposed. Peeta stares down at it and then his eyes raise to mine and he says, "I hope you'll like it." He walks the frame to the nearby wall and props it up, then quickly steps to my side and slides his hand against mine.

Tears instantly fill my eyes and I quickly sit down on the floor, unintentionally yanking my hand away from Peeta's in order to bring it to my face, which I cover, so that only my eyes are exposed, while I stare at the picture of Prim. The tears are making it hard to see and I can feel my body being wracked by sobs, but I try to take in the sight in front of me. Peeta has painted Prim, on a canvas so large that she's nearly life-sized. She's wearing a blue dress that he must have made up, which brings out the lovely color of her eyes. The top part of her blond hair is pulled back off her face, but some of it hangs free in front of her shoulders. She's smiling in a way that I'm not sure I ever saw her smile. It's not a laughing smile, nor a sweet one, exactly. Something about it makes her look older, more mature than I remember her being. She looks content, maybe even consoling.

I tip my head down, completely concealing my face now and drenching my hands with tears. My stomach clenches with cries over and over. I feel Peeta's arms around me and am only vaguely aware as he apologizes profusely. "I'm so sorry, Katniss, I wasn't sure if you were ready. I can take it back to my house for now if you want or I can even get rid of it if you don't like it at all. I'm so, so sorry. I will. I'll take it away." His voice sounds increasingly desperate as my cries continue.

When I feel him pull away from me, I make sense of what he's just said. "No!" I cry, grabbing onto his forearms and yanking him back down to the floor. I look into his eyes and see more alarm in them than I have in a long time. They're wide and sad and his lips are pressed together in a way that makes me think he's on the verge of tears himself.

"I'm so sorry," he repeats as I pull him closer, burying my wet face against his chest and locking my hands together behind his back. His arms are tight around me too, as he apologizes again.

"No," I manage to choke out. I try to take deep breaths and compose myself enough to form words that will explain it to him. "No, Peeta," I say with a shaky voice. But at least I've stopped sobbing. I force myself to breathe and try to continue. There's only one thing I can say that will quickly make him understand. "I love it," I whisper.

Peeta lets out a little scoff that I presume is of disbelief and shock.

"I mean it," I say, pulling back to look at him and wipe my hands over my face and puffy eyes. "It's beautiful." I don't trust myself enough to glance at the picture again yet, so I keep my eyes locked on Peeta's. "It's just…it's like seeing her again."

Peeta nods slowly, seeming to calm down.

"But I love it. I _want_ to see her again, I just wasn't prepared -"

"I'm sorry, I should have told you -" he blurts out.

"No," I shake my head. "You couldn't have known. But I promise I love it, I just need to get used to it. It's really beautiful."

He's still pouting and his eyes are sad, but he reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ears and wipe some more tears off of my face. "You're sure?"

"Yes," I say, "I want to keep it in here, so I can visit it."

His lips curve up into a little smile and he blinks a couple of times, seemingly trying to accept the discrepancy between my words and all that crying. But I meant what I said. It was almost like seeing her again and it was a shock. But the picture is beautiful and I love it. I want to get used to it, because on some level, it was comforting. It's not as if I'm ever going to forget her anyway, so why not have a lovely, vivid painting to look at?

I lean toward Peeta, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Thank you," I whisper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

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><p>No nightmares. It's surprising how much they can affect my whole day. When I wake in the morning, after a night without them, it's unexpectedly freeing. I doubt they'll ever go away for good but I try to make the most of the days when they don't haunt me too much.<p>

While I'm cleaning up after breakfast, I have an idea. "Do you want to go for walk in the woods?" I ask Peeta. It's still early, we've got plenty of time.

"Sure," he says with a smile.

I've never taken him out there before because he would inhibit my hunting, but today I have something else in mind. We leave the Victor's Village together and skirt along the newly rebuilt District Twelve. Even though the population is a mere fraction of what it once was, it's not a dismal place anymore. Perhaps the freedom that we now have makes up for the lack of people. Of course we feel our losses, but it's such a relief that the Peacekeepers are gone and there are no more reapings. There is a kind of hopefulness that everyone seems to share.

We reach the woods and I take Peeta's hand to lead him. We talk a bit about the new shops in town and some of the people with whom I trade meat and Peeta trades his baked goods. Then Haymitch and his geese come up.

After we've been walking for a while, and I've made it clear that we're on a deliberate path, Peeta questions me. "Are we going some place special?" he asks.

_Yes. It's very special._ I look over at him and nod. "It's a surprise."

As the walk wears on, I begin to feel foolish for not bringing anything. I'd forgotten just how long it takes to reach the lake. But we had a big breakfast, so I didn't feel compelled to bring food, and it's a warm day so I didn't grab towels. Plus, if I'd brought towels I wouldn't have been able to surprise Peeta. Unless I put them in a bag, I suppose…

When we finally get there, the sun is almost directly overhead. "Wow," Peeta says, eyeing the sparkling body of water. "This is where you learned to swim."

I nod, looking out over the lake. "I used to come here with my father when I was younger. We would get waterfowl and dig for katniss roots in the shallows."

"That sounds great."

"It was," I say. "It was a special treat on hot summer Sundays." I look around, remembering those happier times. "I came here a few times after the accident. But it wasn't the same."

I feel Peeta's eyes land on me. "Of course," he says, then seems to hesitate before speaking again. "Did you ever bring anyone with you?"

I know what he's really asking, whether or not I used to come here with Gale. And, though I did meet with Gale once in the nearby shack, I decide that that doesn't count. It was the winter and this was merely the most practical place for he and I to discuss running away from Twelve. It wasn't about showing him the lake.

I turn toward Peeta and smile just a little, then shake my head. "I never wanted to share it with anyone before. I always thought of it as a place that belonged to my father and me."

He smiles and reaches out to wrap his arm around me. "Until now?"

I nod, staring up into his eyes. "You're different," I say. His smile grows and I feel warmth rushing though me. Seeing his reaction causes me to realize just how true those words are. He _is_ different. When I'm with him, I feel different. "And what we -" I pause and clear my throat, then start over. "I mean, _this_ is different from -"

He can see that I'm having a hard time getting this out, so he interrupts me by pressing his lips to mine for a few seconds before pulling back. He understands. He knows that whatever was between Gale and I doesn't even compare to _this_. "So," Peeta says, averting his eyes from mine to glance over at the lake. "What now?"

I feel myself smiling just a little. "Well, I never did teach you to swim." I think of the tape we watched of the Quell. If I'd really been trying to teach him anything, we should have taken off that floating belt.

He turns toward me again and bites his lip, pretending to be nervous. "Promise you won't let me drown?"

I laugh a little. "I promise. We can stay where it's shallow enough for you to stand." I reach down, gripping the hem of my shirt, and expect him to turn away from me but he doesn't. In fact, his eyes are on my hands and the little bit of skin I've already exposed.

"Are you going to watch?" I ask, more surprised than anything else.

Peeta smiles, then his eyes raise to mine as he says, "Can I?"

He's never said anything like this before. I don't know why I didn't consider this moment, when I decided that this was what we should do today. I probably assumed he would turn away from me automatically, until I was under the water. Now that he's not doing that, I don't know what to do. I consider telling him no, that he can't watch. But why should I? What does it matter if he sees me? My underclothes are no more revealing than what I wound up clad in during the Quell, after the fog deteriorated our clothes. Though he and I weren't alone then.

I give a little nod, then continue to lift up my shirt, and pull it off over my head. There's a white, thin material tank top underneath, which I'm going to leave on to swim. I unzip my pants and slide them down, then step out of them. This shouldn't be a big deal at all, really. And, though I feel a little funny about the way Peeta's eyes travel over me, from my bare legs all the way up until they meet mine, I'm not uncomfortable.

He takes off his own shirt and pants and I see the extent of his scars, which are mostly confined to the left side of his body. The burns extend, in varying degrees of severity, over about a third of his chest and a ways up his neck. I let my eyes drift along them, to where they form little ridges over the side of his stomach, and then disappear beneath his waistband. They look worse than mine and I can feel myself frowning. Or am I just used to mine? It is because these scars are on Peeta that I feel sad at the sight of them? The glint of the sun, hitting his prosthetic leg, catches my eye and I look down at it for a moment. I realize that, though we share a bedroom, I only ever see him in either his clothes or sleeping shirt and pants. I haven't seen his leg or bare torso in a long time.

I realize that I'm staring and when my eyes return to Peeta's wide ones, I feel mortified. I didn't mean to stare at his leg, I just wasn't thinking. I see him swallow and look over at the lake, blushing just a little. He has to know that I don't care about his imperfections. How could I, when I have so many of my own? I step forward abruptly, wrapping my arms around his waist and nestling my head against his chest. I feel his hands on my back and his cheek touch my head and am relieved that I seem to have consoled him. He needs to know that he doesn't ever have to feel self-conscious around me. He can trust me as much as I trust him.

My lips are gently pressing against his skin, just below his shoulder, and I feel him start with surprise. I'm surprised, too. I didn't plan to do that, it was an impulse.

I quickly pull away and look over at the lake, then start to wade in, aware that he's followed me. When we're standing in water up to my shoulders and his chest, I steal a glance at Peeta and see that he's smiling casually. "Ready," he says.

I hardly have to demonstrate how I move my arms while treading water before I see him lift his feet from the bottom and begin floating. Moving through the water is a bit more of a challenge. At first, he can only swim a few feet and has a hard time staying horizontal. But he improves after I demonstrate a little more. He's able to keep himself afloat.

"Good," I say with a nod after I see him stand up again. He smiles and I slowly step through the water and toward him, to push some wet hair back off his forehead. It's a warm enough day, but the sun keeps disappearing behind the clouds, sometimes for minutes at a time, so the water is a bit cool. Peeta feels nice and warm though, so I slide my arms up over his shoulders and wind them around his neck. I feel both of his hands on my lower back, pulling me even closer. I'm nearly weightless, because of the water, and am able to easily stand on my toes so that I can rest my head on his shoulder. I feel his lips on my neck and one of his hands sliding up the back of my shirt. This was a good idea, I feel plenty warm now.

After a couple of minutes, he pulls back enough to look at me. I feel his hand on my face and his thumb gently stroking across my cheek. He smiles sweetly and then says, "I'm ready to try again."

We spend some more time swimming and then, in the late afternoon, decide to be done for the day. We walk out of the lake together and over to our piles of clothes. After a period of attempting to let ourselves drip dry and wring out our underclothes a little bit, we dress and leave for home.

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><p>That night, once I've changed into my nightclothes, I go to visit the painting of Prim again. It no longer makes me cry, and I seem to love it more and more each time I come here to look at it. I should thank Peeta again. He obviously spent a lot of time on it, and it was so considerate of him to send it away to be framed.<p>

Peeta must have seen me on his way back to my bedroom from the bathroom, where he always changes into his sleeping clothes. I hear his footsteps in the room and then feel his arm wrap around me. We stare at the picture together for a few seconds and then I glance over at him. He smiles and runs his hand through my hair. It almost seems like he's expecting me to say or do something, but before I can make much sense of the way he's looking at me, he looks back over at the painting of Prim. "I'm not very tired, I might go downstairs and paint," he says casually, then returns his eyes to mine. "I mean, unless…" He lets his voice trail off.

"Oh," I say, surprised. I feel more tired than usual, probably because of our long walk, but am still afraid I won't be able to sleep without him. I quickly realize that whether I ask him to come to bed with me or not is in effect making a choice between letting him lie there unable to sleep, or causing myself to. "Sure, that's fine." My words sound more sincere than they really are.

"Okay," he says, giving my forehead a quick kiss. "I'll be back in a little while."

But it doesn't feel like a little while to me. I lie in my bed for what feels like hours. I try sleeping on my back like I used to, but can't get comfortable. I roll onto my stomach, but that's no good either. I reach up and tap my fingernails against the headboard. What's taking him so long? He must have been able to do a whole painting by now. I don't even feel tired anymore. I glance over at the clock on my nightstand and see that it's only been about hour since I lied down. I continue to try everything I can think of to make myself fall asleep: turning my pillow over to feel the cool side against my neck, counting backward from a thousand, thinking about nothing. But it's impossible to think about nothing, I keep thinking of Peeta. What if something's wrong? What if he had a flashback and hurt himself this time? What if he needs me?

I'm out of my bed and down the stairs in seconds. I let out a little sigh when I reach the living room and see that there's nothing wrong with him. He's sitting in the seat that I gave him to use while painting, when he started keeping his brushes and paints here at my house. Peeta glances over at me and smiles a little. "Can't sleep?"

I shake my head and walk over to stand beside him. He's painting a picture of the lake. It's not finished, but what he's done is lovely. The sun is muted behind some clouds and faint rays of light glint off the water. "It's beautiful," I say, as we both look at the picture.

Peeta glances over at me and is still smiling as he says, "I didn't want to forget it."

"We can go back sometime," I say quickly, but then realize that he probably means he doesn't want to forget exactly how it looked _today_, the first time I brought him there.

He nods and gives a little shrug, then sets down his brush and turns so that he's facing me. When Peeta's sitting in this seat, and I'm standing, I'm just a bit taller than he is. His blue eyes are a little heavy lidded and I feel surprised that he's stayed down here this long. I step closer to him, reaching out to cup one hand over his jaw while the other slides around the back of his neck and up into his hair. Both of his hands wrap around my waist and I feel his thumbs moving back and forth across the fabric of my shirt that covers my stomach.

I can't believe how much I missed him just now while I was trying to fall asleep. I think of how I raced down here, afraid that something had happened to him, and remind myself that I don't have to be afraid for him anymore. He's here and he's going to stay. I get to keep him… always.

I lean forward, seeing his eyes fall shut just before mine do. I only meant to press my lips to his for a second, but quickly change my mind. A second isn't nearly enough. I'm vaguely aware of a quickening of my heartbeat, but it's hard to think about anything except for him. His arms wrap around me, pulling my body against his and I start to feel that warm and curious stirring in my chest, like I did during that kiss in the cave.

I gently pull back, nervous about what it means, but then when I look into his eyes again, I feel calm. It's just Peeta, who loves me and always will. It's okay to let myself feel that way, because I trust him. I want to kiss him again, but not here. I let my hands slide down, so that they're resting on his shoulders. "Come to bed," I say.

Peeta nods quickly, releasing me. "I'll be right there," he says, turning to put his paints away. I walk briskly to the doorway, glad to have a moment alone while I make my way upstairs. To combat my nerves, I tell myself that when he joins me in the bedroom, I can just lie my head on his chest and go to sleep. That was what I wanted him for in the first place, before I went downstairs. But when I sit down on my bed in the dark room, I realize that I'm not tired anymore. In fact, all I can think of is kissing him again.

I slide beneath the covers and see his silhouette enter the room. He closes the door behind him and then lies down next to me on his side, firmly pressing his lips into mine again. The feeling that he gives me is back almost instantly. Originating in my chest and then spreading out like it did on the beach in the Quell. But now, with no wounds or lightning to interrupt us, it intensifies even more. Increasing and extending through my whole body until all I can think of, all I know is this feeling. It's the only thing that seems to matter and I can't get enough of it, or of Peeta.

My arms are tight around him as we lie side by side. Firmly, insistently, I pull him with me when I lean onto my back. It seems like we kiss forever, but eventually things start to change. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness by the time he gently pulls his mouth from mine, and his expression is one that I don't think I've ever seen on him before. It's now that I realize I've wrapped my legs around him tightly.

"You want this?" he asks.

"Yes."

His eyes widen, and I can only imagine what this moment must mean for him. But he doesn't seem nervous at all, not the way I am. Of course, the other things I feel are more important, but I can't help being a little uneasy, and I can't help wondering…

"I've never," I tell him. He _must_ know that I don't have any experience with this, but I really only brought it up to hear his response.

"Neither have I," he assures me, running his fingers along my cheek and staring into my eyes. It's a relief to hear this, though I ought to have known. When you love someone as much as he loves me, there just isn't room for anyone else. I understand that now.

He gives me another kiss on the lips and then leans back away, almost sitting up, and I feel his hands slide along the bare skin that's exposed where my shirt is hiked up. He pushes the shirt up farther, until my whole stomach is showing, then I feel his lips on me, kissing all over. I love the way it feels but can't help thinking that this is taking too long. The feeling he gives me hasn't faded. I reach down to cup his face in my hands and I whisper, "Please."

My single word of encouragement must mean a lot to him, because I can hardly believe how quickly things start to happen now.

After, he lies on his back, my head and both hands rest on his chest and his arms are tight around me. I listen to his heart beating and feel his lips brushing against my hair.

It's now that I realize just how right Gale was when he said I would choose the person I can't survive without. Even though I didn't exactly choose Peeta, I know that I would have. I remember when he told me that mockingjays need wings to survive, but I'm not a mockingjay; not anymore. He's what I need to survive. He's made things better since we came home. Peeta is my reminder that life can go on and that it can be good again.

"I love you," he says softly, then tilts my face up so we're eye to eye. "I'll always love you."

And I love him. I don't know how long the love has been there, but it must have been present for some time. I'm used to it already, like I'm used to him. I open my mouth, trying to form words that will return his sentiments, but he can't wait. He's waited long enough. He whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

As usual, he wants to make things easier for me. I smile, amused by his use of that game at a time like this. Then, without hesitation and without any doubts, I tell him, "Real."

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><p><strong>The End<strong>

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading!


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